


In the Company of Wolves

by Lydia_Martin_trash



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banshee Lydia Martin, Depictions of Bullying, Derek Hale is the town's pariah, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mild Gore, POV Derek Hale, POV Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is Noah, Stiles Stilinski is Sixteen Years Old, Stiles Stilinski's Name is Mieczysław, The Hales are the guardians of Beacon Hills, depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 13:09:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11149089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lydia_Martin_trash/pseuds/Lydia_Martin_trash
Summary: Derek Hale was trouble. Stiles Stilinski was trouble-magnet.Or: When Stiles Stilinski's teenage rebellion manifests itself in an interest for rumored serial killer Derek Hale, things take a turn to the strange.Written for the Sterek Reversebang 2017





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ParadiseDesdemona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadiseDesdemona/gifts).
  * Inspired by [In the Company of Wolves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11143449) by [ParadiseDesdemona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadiseDesdemona/pseuds/ParadiseDesdemona). 



> Thanks to the wonderful Danielle for beta reading this and giving me the confidence to post and to ParadiseDesdemona for making the best playlist that inspired it in the first place. I loved working with both of you!

 

            Maybe for the first time since he started monitoring Dad’s salt intake, the package laying on Roscoe’s passenger side floor contained something other than rabbit food. It had a steak, his mother’s recipe, and on the rare side of things. For himself, Stiles had made a salad. The saddest salad to ever salad, with two kinds of lettuce, tomatoes and no dressing. And if _that_ didn’t show Dad he was completely, totally, genuinely sorry, probably nothing would.

            It was pouring since the early afternoon and it showed no signs of stopping – the Weather Channel, little as it could be trusted, predicted rain throughout the weekend – so Stiles circled around the block three times until finding a spot close enough to the station that he had a chance of getting inside without getting drenched. After a moment’s thought, he took off his plaid shirt and wrapped both meals plus the good cutlery he had dug out the kitchen cabinet in it, just to be sure. He wouldn’t die if he had just the one layer for once, but if something happened to the steak… Stiles had cried for less in his life.

            All the same, when he stepped inside the station, he looked like a wet cat and his teeth were clattering, even if he had managed to protect the package somewhat, and he might as well have gone for a swim instead of running from Roscoe to shelter as quickly as his usual grace permitted. He made for a sad figure under the bluish light of the foyer, Stiles knew, but still he tried to give Tara his best innocent smile as he approached the front desk.

            “Hi, Deputy Graeme!” he winked at her. “Just thought I’d bring Dad some dinner. He needs his strength to fight crime and all.”

            She didn’t wink back like she usually did, but she did smile slightly, so he counted it as a win.

            “Really, now. Weren’t you supposed to be grounded for the week?” She said. It wasn’t much a question as it was a statement, and she was giving him her trademark incredulous look, but that he wasn’t being shooed away was a good sign.

            “Funny that… I don’t think, no… Well, now that you say, I might remember something about some grounding going on.” He stuttered. Tara snorted, but he wouldn’t give up just yet. “But it’s my last day, so since I’m already here, I should stay. Definitely should stay. So, I don’t get into trouble.”

            “Kid, trouble follows wherever you go”, she said. “Stay. I don’t want you driving in this weather. We’ve had a pileup in the highway already and I doubt Roscoe can get you home in one piece. But the Sheriff’s not in, so you’ll have to wait outside his office.”

            “Thanks, Tara, you’re the best!” Stiles grinned and turned to go before she changed her mind. “I’ll even pretend you didn’t insult my jeep to my face!”

            He almost slipped in his hurry. He’d made a puddle where he’d been standing, right where anyone wanting to talk to the deputy at the reception desk would probably stand. But Tara hadn’t developed X-ray vision yet, so what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Stiles hugged the meals wrapped in plaid to his chest and gave her a little wave.

            “Oh, Stiles?” He turned at Tara’s serious tone. She was frowning, all traces of amusement gone from her freckled face. “Hale’s in again. Don’t go pestering him.”

            “As if”, he said. “That dude’s scary. I have _some_ survival instinct.”

            Satisfied with his answer, Tara waved him off and went back to her computer. She was probably organizing the less urgent calls for when units where available while sending people to check the bigger emergencies. Night like that, chances were Mr. Stewart would have to live with his neighbor loud music, especially if there had been a pile up.

            That was probably where his Dad was right now, and he probably would take a good long while to get back. Stiles peeked around the corner hoping some of the older deputies, who had been exposed to Stiles’ cute phase and therefore had a strong tolerance of his presence, were on duty, but alas, he had no luck: Parrish was at his desk on one side of the room, his back to Stiles, and Hale was on the other, sitting on the last of a row of chairs outside his Dad’s office and following Stiles with his intense green-eyed stare.

            _He probably heard my sneakers and wanted to see who was coming_ , Stiles thought. He entered the room slowly, hugging his package more securely, without breaking eye contact. A minute before he was shivering and clattering his teeth, now he felt overly warm. His skin was tingling. He was suddenly acutely aware that his clothes were clinging to his body, and what a ridiculous thing to be thinking, he wasn’t a girl in a wet shirt contest. If nothing else, his t-shirt was blue. Also, he wasn’t a girl. There was that too.

            Yet, he scurried to Parrish’s desk in a hurry and sat heavily across him. He could still feel Hale’s gaze on his neck and had to stop himself from turning on the chair to stare right back. He couldn’t keep from fidgeting, though, especially because Parrish took his sweet time to stop typing and look at him. Stiles had time to put his package on the chair by his side, rub his neck and crack all his finger’s joints by the time the deputy bothered to acknowledge him.

            “Are you supposed to be here?” he asked, frowning slightly. Since he was a lawful good man with little patience for the Sheriff’s delinquent of a son, a light frown on his part was basically an invitation to talk, as far as Stiles was concerned.

            “Is it stuffy in here?” he started. “I feel like it’s stuffy in here. Like, way warmer than it should be.” Stiles licked his lips and fidgeted more in his seat. He could feel himself starting to flush.

            “It’s perfectly cool in here. The AC is on.” Parrish sighed, going back to his computer. “Please, tell me you didn’t ignore your grounding just to come be sick here.”

            “Nah, dinner for Dad” Stiles said pointing the chair next to him. He caught himself trying to steal a glimpse of Hale out of the corner of his eye and forced himself to look at the man in front of him again. “Does everyone know I’m grounded or something? Did my Dad pass a memo around the station?”

            “It’s a pretty safe bet that you’re grounded most of the time, isn’t it?” Parrish smiled at the screen.

            Stiles scowled at him.

            “Cute. I’ll have you know I haven’t been grounded since I was thirteen.”

            “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

            The phone on his desk started to ring and Parrish yawned before picking it up. Stiles was left with nothing to do but keep fidgeting (he chose to tap his right foot on the floor this time) and feeling Hale’s burning eyes.

            Truly, Stiles understood. He had always had a way of commandeering people’s attention through the sheer force of his weirdness, and only the strongest, such as Lydia Martin, could resist the impulse for long. And the guy was a fixture at the police station, almost as much as Stiles himself, forever in for questioning or temporary detainment. That was to say, he probably was sick and tired of looking at the same brownish decor, the same dusty tiled floor, the same people who had nothing on him, really, but by know all _knew_ he was the town resident serial killer.

            Hale was probably grateful for the chance to look at someone else for once, and Stiles was mostly happy to provide. It was only that it felt different from all the times people had looked at Stiles like they were trying to figure what planet he had come from before dismissing him. It felt as if Hale’s gaze was magnetic, trying to pull him into his orbit. Stiles felt an itch to look back, and to look from up close.

            In his defence, he tried to keep from temptation, but there wasn’t much to do in the station if you didn’t work or volunteered there, and if both Tara and Parrish knew he was grounded, there was no chance of some snooping being passed off as playing Free Cell in Dad’s office. Parrish kept on whispering in police code right before him as if Stiles didn’t have that stuff down, but for once Stiles didn’t try to overhear what exactly was happening. Instead, he craned his neck to analyze Hale.

            He _was_ scary, mostly because he was always frowning, and with eyebrows like that a frown was nothing short of impressive. Hale was perpetually angry, from what Stiles could tell, but then again, Stiles had only ever seen him in the Sheriff station in passing, being brought in while Stiles did his homework or looked at confidential files from over people’s shoulders. That was the first time they stayed in the same room for any length of time, and the first time there was no busy crowd between them.

            Hale wasn’t frowning now. He had an intent look on his face, but it leaned more towards contemplation than outright fury, and it made easy to see past his bad reputation to his Adonis-like beauty. He was young, maybe only a few years older than Stiles himself, but not soft in any way. Everything, from his rough stubble to his cheekbones to the tip of his straight nose was sharp, ready to cut Stiles open, but gently. And he was still, more than Stiles or even a normal, sane person could ever hope to be, as he analyzed Stiles back.

            They locked eyes again. Stiles knew he had to be cherry-red by now, and the sound of his own heartbeat was deafening to his own ears. He had a strange intuition that Hale could hear it too somehow, even as he couldn’t come up with an explanation for it. He just knew, as Hale drew a breath deep enough to make his nostrils flare, that he was right.

            A cough from Parrish broke his trance and Stiles looked at him again to find him serious, a deep wrinkle between his eyebrows. He was done with his call and watched Hale, to Stiles’ consternation.

            “We found another body”, he said. “Slashed throat.”

            “Oh”. Stiles said. For once he didn’t want to talk at all. But he knew he should, if he wanted to at least pretend the way Hale was looking at him, _still_ , wasn’t doing something to him. “Let me guess: Hale was the last person seen with him?”

            “Her, actually. And yes, outside the laundromat on the fourth, three days ago.” Parrish said. “She wasn’t local. No ID, nothing on the database. He won’t tell us who she was.”

            “Maybe he doesn’t know.” Stiles said, and had to stop himself from flinching back at the look Parrish gave him. He was no quitter; however, nobody could say that about him. “Well, do you have something on him at least?”

            “You should go home, Stiles. The Sheriff won’t like knowing you are here right now.” Parrish said, turning back to his computer once again. It seemed he was angry enough that doing his paperwork beat talking to Stiles. That was quick, even accounting for how uncomfortable Stiles made him.

            “And you won’t tell him I was here if I go?” He snickered. It was funny, really. Parrish was too much of goody-goody to not report to his Dad that Stiles had been skulking around, even if his motives were as innocent as wanting to give his Dad a good meal.

            But Parrish just looked past him, at where Hale was sitting, still and waiting. The weight of his gaze left Stiles’ neck, and without looking, Stiles somehow knew Hale was back to frowning now. The feeling permeated the room.

            “Yes”, Parrish finally said. It was his eyes locked with Hale’s now, glowering. “I’ll convince Deputy Graeme not to say anything either.”

            Stiles just blinked at him, surprised. His mouth recovered before his brain and he listened to himself talk almost as if he was an outsider to his own body watching the catastrophe happen.

            “I don’t think I want to”, he said.

            The moment Hale stopped glaring at Parrish was palpable. The very air around them became lighter. Parrish gaped, dumbstruck, and Stiles took the opportunity to turn around in his chair and look his fill unabashedly. No way this wasn’t getting back to his Dad, so he might as well. Hale stretched his legs, crossed his ankles and leaned back on his chair. The way he crossed his arms made his biceps strain in his grey Henley. _He’s showing off for me,_ Stiles thought. It was absurd, but nonetheless he felt a familiar stirring in his crotch area. Hale’s nostrils flared again and he smirked, his eyes trying to pull Stiles in again.

            Stiles didn’t turn back at the sound of Parrish’s chair scratching the floor, but he didn’t exactly have a choice when the man grabbed him by the shoulders and put him on his feet. He tried to direct him to the exit not so gently in a move strangely reminiscing of his Dad, but Stiles flailed around and dug his hells in, as much as someone could dig anything on tiles. His sneakers squeaked.

            “What the hell, Stiles?” Parrish whispered. Then he glared at Hale and all but yelled, “You can’t smoke in here!”

            From somewhere, Hale had pulled a thin cigarette and a cheap plastic lighter. He didn’t heed Parrish at all and took a long drag, closing his eyes. It was Stiles who couldn’t stop staring now, mouth hanging open like a fish and pants tightening.

            When Parrish tried to drag him this time, Stiles didn’t resist. Instead, he tried to think unsexy thoughts. The face Mr. Harris made whenever Stiles answered anything right in Chemistry. Scott and Allison making out next to him in the movies instead of watching whatever was showing. That time Danny dislocated his shoulder in lacrosse practice.

            But turned out he didn’t need to worry. Any impure thought evaporated as soon as Parrish and he got to the door and bumped into his Dad.

 

 

 

            “You are an A+ student, right?” Dad asked. They weren’t in the interrogation room. They were in Dad’s office in all its glorious, soothing familiarity, and Stiles was sitting in his favorite chair, the one which squeaked the least and basically had his butt print in it at this point. He should be relaxed, feeling as safe as he ever felt in there, but he was tense. And he _was_ being interrogated, no doubt about it.

            The trap was closing on him. They’d barely exchanged hellos before Dad closed the door and the blinds. Instead of sitting behind his desk, he was looming over Stiles, hands on his waist and a thunderous expression. Stiles’ only comfort was that he’d been brought straight here and Parrish didn’t have time to babble anything incriminating.

            “That would be correct, yes.” Stiles answered, aiming at guileless, even if not-as-guilty-as-initially-assumed was the best he had managed to pull since he started buzzing his hair. He had hoped the fact he was still drenched and cold again would help his case, but Dad didn’t seem inclined to take pity on him.

            “So you do know what ‘grounded’ means”, he said.

            “Well… there’s this thing called polysemy…” Stiles started, blinking slowly. Scott said it made him look stoned, but Allison said it made him look like a doe, an animal completely innocent and above suspicion. “…which I know because I’m an A+ student as you said, though a mix of A to B- would be more accurate, really…”

            “There is also this thing called ‘curfew’ that you’re supposed to be obeying” Dad interrupted. He was unsmiling still, the lines on his face deep and unrelenting. He looked exhausted.

            “I just wanted to bring you dinner”, he answered quietly. Then continued in a rush when Dad’s face softened the tinniest bit “And you said I was grounded for as long as suspension lasted, and it ended today at 3pm, you see, since school lets out at three and I’m back on Monday, so technically…”

            Dad sighed, scrunching his face that way he did when Stiles was being particularly annoying. Stiles was well acquainted with that expression.

           “Will you ever learn to quit while you’re ahead?” He asked. And cut him off again when Stiles tried to open his mouth, “You’re grounded until next Monday, and that’s only because next Monday, the minute school is out, you’re going to Mr. Walcott’s, and you’re going to sweep floors, or restock, or do whatever he tells you to do. Then you’re going to get home, do your homework and behave, every day until the day you’ve managed to pay Jackson back for the repairs to his car. Is that clear?”

           “Crystal”, Stiles answered in a small voice. It was a miracle he could talk at all around the giant lump on his throat. With the number of times his Dad had lectured him in his life, he supposed he should be used to it by now, but he wasn’t, especially not when he was so thoroughly conscious he deserved to be lectured. “I’ll be a model employee, promise. But about that dinner…”

           “I’ve eaten already.” Dad said. And added, to twist the metaphorical knife in Stiles’ heart: “I was near In-N-Out after the mess on the highway.”

           “What?! Dad, do you _wanna_ clog all your arteries? Do you know how much sodium–”.

           “I’m sure you’ll let me know some other time” he said. “But now you’re going home. Just wait until the rain eases up a little.”

           Stiles just looked at him, utterly betrayed, as the Sheriff made the way around his desk, sat and started going through some files that had been piled up neatly as if Stiles was already out of the room and out of his mind.

          “Can’t I wait in here then? Parrish didn’t want to let me stay in the same room as Hale” he tried. It was a long shot, but if even Parrish – who only stomached him, at best – saw reason to put some distance between him and the town’s psycho, maybe his Dad would too.

          But the good Sheriff didn’t see it that way:

          “Tell me you didn’t go bothering Derek Hale.” He begged, pressing the flat of his palm against his forehead.

          “No, of course not. Jeez! Why does everybody think I’m going to accost the guy?” Stiles nearly shouted. He was starting to blush again, he knew, but there was nothing he could do about that except pray Dad was too angry to notice.

          “Keep it that way”, he ordered. “The farther away you are from him, the happier I’ll be. That’s all the more reason for you to go, actually.” He added, leaning back on his chair and looking at Stiles with an unhappy twist in his mouth. “I’m going to talk to him in here, he’s not being formally interrogated. We’re just waiting for his lawyer. She got stuck in traffic, and he insists she should be present.”

           That gave Stiles some pause. He fiddled with his bitten nails for a moment, trying to appear uninterested even as Dad made a sign for him to get going.

           “How long has he been in here?” He asked, getting up from his chair with his usual elegance. He’d left a little puddle in the seat too, he noticed with a quick double take. Stiles started looking around for something to wipe the water away with, but Dad finally decided he was taking too long, got up and started guiding him to the exit.

           “A while”, he answered, opening the door and pushing Stiles out. He left the door open, crossed his arms at the doorway and waited until Stiles got to Parrish’s desk before nodding, probably believing Stiles would grab the meal he’d prepared and head out peacefully.

           Dad grabbed an ashtray from his office and offered it to Hale wordlessly, Stiles noticed as he pretended to re-tie his plaid shirt around the package under Parrish’s disapproving glance, and Hale put his cigarette out without complaint. His Dad waved at him, waited for Stiles to wave back, and went back to his office, closing the door behind him.

           It was like Dad didn’t even know Stiles sometimes.

           He said good-bye to Parrish, but instead of going to the corridor, he turned around and walked up to Hale, who looked at him with the same burning eyes as before, except now they seemed to dance in amusement even though his pink lips stayed in a neutral straight line.

           “Are you hungry?” Stiles asked, sharper than he intended. If he didn’t get straight to the point he’d probably chicken out and go home to his empty house in a dejected haze and let the fruits of his labor spoil quietly in the corner of the refrigerator. Or the steak of his labor, more precisely.

           Hale seemed taken aback. He nodded minutely, surprised into honesty for a second, but didn’t say anything as Stiles offered him the meal he’d made with all the care in the word. Of course, when he’d made it, Stiles believed it was going to his Dad, but still. Ungrateful.

          “Isn’t this your dinner?” Hale finally asked after it became evident Stiles would keep waiting for an answer indefinitely. Closer up, he looked about twenty times less murderous, and a thousand times more handsome. Hale’s clothes looked slightly damp, like he had been caught in the rain too, only a few hours ago. Stiles felt a deep satisfaction that he got to look at him from so _near_ even as he felt his cheeks warming.

           “I don’t feel like eating.” He said. And he truly didn’t, though he’d have made the effort for Dad. “It’s just that it’s going to the trash otherwise, and I worked hard on it. You don’t have to accept if you don’t want.”

           “Thank you.” Hale said, grabbing the package and depositing it on his lap. He kept on staring at Stiles. That time it _did_ feel like he was trying to figure out what planet he had come from, but not in a malicious way.

           “Hey, anytime. Well, anytime I have a spare meal.” Stiles gave him a little grin. “I should get going”, he said. He could see Parrish’s reflection observing them on the window of Dad’s office, and he didn’t look a bit happy. In fact, he looked furious, and Stiles was pretty sure he had his hand on his gun, judging by his posture.

           “Okay.” Hale answered again. Not only he was an unusually still person, he was also an unusually unblinking person, Stiles noticed. Or maybe he did find the change of routine Stiles provided just that fascinating.

           As he turned to go, studiously avoiding looking at Parrish, he felt like a tree pulling at his roots in order to walk. Hale’s gaze was heavy and insistent. Stiles gave him a last glance before turning the corner, quick and furtive, and ran, literally ran before Hale could pull him in again.

            _That was strange_ , he thought. Even for Stiles Stilinski it was strange and that was saying something. He should feel relived it was over, maybe, but in the end it didn’t matter that he only felt bereft because this was an once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence, and he would never have cause nor desire to talk to Hale again, much less to feed him. And Stiles was already done thinking about it. He was going to go home and not think about it.

           Yet, when his feet took him to the foyer, he could see the rain was falling harder than before, so he went straight to Tara.

           “I gave Hale the steak I made for Dad.” He confessed. The words were out of his mouth before he had even finished thinking them, and Stiles had to watch as her smile for him crumpled in an expression of despair.

           “Why, Stiles?” She asked, rubbing her eyes.

           “I have poor impulse control?” He tried, shrugging, though he knew she was probably asking why he was like that more than why he decided to interact with a known person of interest in 80% of Beacon Hills murder cases. Stiles was well acquainted with that tone, too. “He’ll probably throw it away, no harm done.”

           “That’s what you are going with?” She signed. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. You are a walking example of reverse psychology. Get in here.” She waited until Stiles was on her side of the front desk. “Now sit and think of a better excuse for when the Sheriff talks to you. I’ll let you know when the rain stops.”

            Stiles sat on the floor by her left, feeling like a scolded child. He blamed Scott, really. If they were on speaking terms, he wouldn’t have told Tara anything, because he would have texted Scott instead, and swear him to secrecy, and then Scott and Allison would take the truth of his embarrassing interaction with Hale to the grave.

            The truth being not the abridged version he told Tara, or the version Parrish was sure to tell Dad, where Hale was acting like a creep and Stiles was indulging his own need to poke things in a dangerous way. No, more like the truth where Hale could, albeit in a slightly creepy fashion, see Stiles for something other than an uncoordinated mess, and where Stiles liked it.

 

 

 

            The rain didn’t ease for another hour. Stiles tried playing Candy Crush to pass the time, but after six failed attempts at getting on the next level, he gave it up in favor of watching the numbers on the digital clock hanging on the wall in front of him change one excruciating minute at a time.

            He saw as a little old lady with her hair in a severe bum entered the station, and he saw when she left with Hale hot on her heels twenty minutes later. Stiles wasn’t trying to check Hale’s ass out, but it was directly in his line of sight, really, all round and full and covered in jeans wetter than the rest of his pants. He had probably sat on Stiles’ chair.

            Hale was also carrying the package Stiles had given him under his arm. Stiles didn’t really care about the Tupperware or the shirt. He had at least twenty more of each at home. But he definitely mourned the loss of the finer cutlery his Mom had gotten as a wedding gift, and when he had tried to get up to go ask for it back, Tara had grabbed him by the ear and sat him back on the floor without letting him explain himself. Hale didn’t see Stiles behind the desk, not that he made much of a move to look for him. So that was a fork and a knife he would never see again.

            By the time Tara deemed it safe for him to go, Stiles was more than ready to call it a day, get home, get a scorching shower and lie in his bed watching some mind-numbing series for some hours until he could fall asleep. _Hale must be already warm and dry_ , he thought for no reason at all, _at least someone is_.

            When he entered Roscoe, he was wet again, so he started the Jeep (his baby only cooperated on the fourth time, after Stiles apologized for leaving him in the rain for so long) and turned the heat on, putting his hands on the vent to warm them faster. Roscoe was already temperamental enough when Stiles had feeling on his fingers.

            Stiles had already turned on the headlights and switched the turn signal when he spotted Hale. He had caught some rain again, because his Henley was obscenely see-through, but now he was standing in the crevice between a hairstylist’s and a Starbucks, waiting the rain out under the thin protection of a baby pink canopy just a few feet away from the Sheriff station.

            If he ever told anyone this story (not that he would) Stiles would say he waited for a moment, torn between helping someone clearly miserable escape the rain and not interacting with Hale against the wishes of three adults he respected and who clearly had his best interests in mind. The reality was a bit different. He did hesitate, but it was the thought of his warm bed wrestling with the cold of his empty house. When Hale looked at him again through the glass panel littered with droplets, though, the matter was settled.

            Stiles drove to Hale and opened the passenger’s window.

            “Do you want a ride?” He asked. A part of him already knew the answer even before Hale opened the door and got in, the package Stiles had given him still under his arm. He didn’t say a word, but he had a little smile on the corner of his mouth, or so Stiles thought. Maybe it was the just the dark.

            “I thought you had left with your lawyer”, Stiles said, checking the rear-view mirror for any incoming cars and pulling out into traffic. Beside him, Hale was closing the window.

            “Satomi was heading on the opposite direction.” Hale said. “She lives in Hill Valley.”

            “You’re not going home” Stiles realized. It was common knowledge in Beacon Hills where the Hales lived. Their house had been demolished after a fire that killed almost every member of the family and threatened to burn the wildlife around, but the survivors had rebuilt on the same plot of land, and to go the neighboring town one had to take the highway that passed by the preserve.

            “Beacon Hills Memorial, if you don’t mind.” Hale said. Somehow, Stiles knew he was smiling just by his tone of his voice, like they were old friends instead of virtual strangers. “Though I’m guessing you don’t.”

            “I don’t.” Stiles confirmed. He was feeling distinctively warm, and had already reached to turn off the heat when he remembered Hale might be cold still, if he had been waiting almost an hour in the open. “But I think visitation time is over by now.” It was also common knowledge that there was a Hale that had been badly injured in the fire and had been hospitalized ever since.

            “Not a problem”, Hale answered. He saw Stiles’ hand hovering over the heat button, put his own hand – warm, broad and soft as a petal – over his and made Stiles press it. His hand lingered on Stiles’ for a second too long and his fingers stroked the back of it before letting go. “Don’t leave it on because of me.”

            By the time they stopped at the red light at the next intersection, Stiles had a situation in his pants again. He knew he should try to get things back to normal – the man had only touched his hand, after all, it was hardly an invitation to bone on the backseat – but he just took the opportunity to look at Hale again.

            He was so wet from the rain Stiles felt drier by comparison, but he had no doubt who wore it better. Hale was turned to Stiles, and with his grey Henley transparent and clinging to his body, Stiles could _count_ his abdominals, and he also could see exactly where the patch of hair on his chest and bellow his navel started and finished. Stiles doubted any of it was soft, but he was suddenly dying to test it, to slide his hands through his wet hair and his stubble and under his clothes.

            _I have to stop looking at him_ , Stiles thought, even as he got pulled into Hale’s eyes again. He looked hungry, the same way he had at the station when Stiles came in. His nostrils flared, like he could actually smell Stiles’ arousal and it was driving him wild. He certainly felt like a predator about to jump on Stiles. _Every time I look he gets more beautiful, I have to stop_.

            He wished for more light so he could look at Hale more, take all of him in, even as he wished for less light so Hale couldn’t see how he was blushing, probably incandescent pink by now. It didn’t matter much, really, because Hale seemed to like what he saw. He was smirking confidently and coming closer.

            The car behind them honked, sudden and loud enough to break the spell. Stiles startled so violently he took his foot off the pedal and the Jeep died. Hale managed to jump to the other side of the car without getting a black eye from Stiles’ flailing, which was a minor miracle in itself.

            Pulling the handbrake, Stiles rolled his eyes at the driver (he’d rushed by them calling Stiles an idiot, but it was nothing that his ego couldn’t take) and started the Jeep again. He managed to catch the green light, but his dick had officially lost interest. Hale noticed the mood was gone, and started pouting about it, Stiles noticed with some amusement. It wasn’t nearly close enough to his usual frowns to merit another title.

            “We don’t even know each other.” Stiles said, more to himself than to Hale. It was a consensus among everyone who had ever seen him pout that he looked like a chimp when he did it, so no way he was going to in front of the underwear model sitting next to him. Rationalization it was. “We don’t even know each other’s first names.”

            “Your nickname is Stiles.” Hale answered immediately. “At least that’s what the deputies and the Sheriff call you. I don’t know your real name.” He admitted.

            Stiles felt oddly touched that the man had paid enough attention to his shenanigans at the station to catch his name, however recent that might have happened. Maybe he should be embarrassed, but at this point he was basically resigned to public scolding by basically anyone wearing a uniform.

            “My name is Derek.” He said after a while, looking at Stiles with a hopeful expression that somehow Stiles knew had nothing to do with their almost something a few traffic lights ago.

            “It suits you, Derek.” He said, smiling now. He couldn’t help it, the information just made him happy for some reason. He always loved it when people’s name matched them. Stiles knew he would never be able to think of him as “Hale” again. “I just meant maybe this isn’t the best idea.”

            “And you seem like a collector of good ideas.” Derek snorted. Once again, Stiles glanced at him by the corner of his eye, marveling at how much _not_ malicious he was. If anyone else had made that comment, even Scott, it would have felt barbed. When Derek made it, it felt playful.

            Truth was, Stiles could still be persuaded, he knew, if Derek looked at him _that_ way again and no one interrupted. But Derek was regarding him differently now, his postured relaxed and open. He seemed to be enjoying talking to Stiles, and that was rare. Stiles sure was enjoying it too, so maybe they could put the sexual tension aside.

            “You wouldn’t know.” He said. That smile didn’t want to get out of his lips, he sounded far too silly for how serious he was being. “My ideas are awesome, they work, like, seventy-five percent of the time.”

            “You just have that look.” Derek answered. He was smiling too. His teeth were painfully white, his canines very pointy. “A face like mischief”, he added.

            Stiles’ heart skipped a beat. He looked at Derek with round eyes, mouth open in delighted surprise. Derek looked back at him, worried, but also puzzled. He put his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, and the warmth made Stiles laugh. Derek relaxed at the sound, Stiles could read it in his posture, in the way he rubbed his shoulder before letting him go reluctantly, and especially in the upward curve on the corner of his mouth.

            They parked a little way off from the entrance of the hospital, under a tree. The rain had quieted somewhat, and Stiles knew Derek had no real reason to linger. Yet, when he turned Roscoe off and turned on his seat to him, he did the same. Their knees were almost touching. Derek’s eyes were burning again, so Stiles took his hand into his and started playing with his fingers.

            “I never _want_ to get into trouble.” He said. “It just sort of happens to me.”

            Derek closed the distance between them, but instead of kissing Stiles as one might have expected, he just breathed him in. The tip of his nose touched his cheek and his stubble scratched the corner of Stiles’ mouth. His eyes were closed to Stiles’ half-lidded ones.

            “You never go looking for it, I’m sure.” There was a dark amusement in his voice. The hand Stiles wasn’t holding started going up his thigh, massaging slowly, leaving no question to where it was heading. Stiles felt exposed and vulnerable at the same time, but protected too as he gripped the soft hand between his own. No doubt Derek could break him in half, built as he was, he could bend Stiles over and do whatever he pleased, but he wouldn’t, Stiles felt it in his bones.

            “You never offer rides to stranger, scary men and let them see you like this. You have better survival instincts than that, I bet.” He said, his hand touching Stiles’ dick over his pants, firmly but oh so gentle. When Stiles whimpered, Derek bit his neck, more holding him between his sharp teeth than actually biting, really, but it was enough to make Stiles throw his head back.

            “I’m not scared of you”, Stiles whispered to the celling of his car. He was swimming in sensation; he didn’t even know what he was saying, really, he didn’t even care that he was about to come in his wet pants without even a touch under clothes or a kiss. Anything was fine as long as Derek kept going.

            Of course Derek chose that moment to stop. Such was Stiles’ life.

            “What?” Derek asked, letting go of Stiles’ neck and putting just enough distance between them to look at Stiles’ face. His hand was back to Stiles’ thigh, and that was an unacceptable state of affairs. Stiles tried to climb out of a lust haze to answer, but it was difficult.

            “What what?” He asked, licking his lips. Logically he knew that the sooner he addressed whatever Derek’s concerns were, the sooner they maybe could go back to dick-touching, but Stiles wasn’t in a very eloquent mood right now. The man was rubbing a sixteen-year-old off on a car parked in a heavily populated area after being questioned in relation to a murder case, but something _Stiles_ did spooked him. The situation was ridiculous. Stiles was frustrated beyond belief, and had to use all his willpower to not guide the hand he was still holding to his crotch.

            Derek seemed distracted for a moment looking at Stiles tongue, but shook himself  before anything could come of it.

            “What did you say?” He clarified. At Stiles blank expression, he added “About being scared.”

            “That I’m not scared of you.” Stiles repeated, confused. “I mean, you’re scary, no worries if that’s what you’re going for, but I’m not scared of you. I didn’t think you’d hear that.” He rubbed Derek’s hand absently-minded. “Is everything okay?”

            Derek looked down, at their joined hands, Stiles thought. Then he looked at Stiles face with open astonishment and maybe a little fear. Stiles didn’t have much of a chance to decide if what he saw was real, because Derek retreated to the other side of the Jeep.

            “I have to go.” He said, avoiding Stiles’ eyes. More than anything else, that felt the most bizarre after they had sought each other’s stare every time they were in the same place tonight.

            “Are you sure?” Stiles asked. He tried to reach for Derek’s shoulder, like he had done for Stiles, but Derek grabbed the package at his feet like a shield and bolted from the Jeep. Stiles’ fingers grazed his own plaid shirt, but he didn’t have time to do more than that.

            Once outside, Derek seemed to calm down. He took a deep breath of the night air and looked back at Stiles with barely disguised wonder.

            “Get out of the rain, idiot.” Stiles shouted. Not that he cared if Derek caught his death, he just didn’t want to put it in the list of tonight’s disasters. It was long enough already.

            Derek started walking to the hospital, turned back half-way and looked at Stiles one more time. He nodded to him, and Stiles nodded back with a half-smile even if he felt like screaming the frustration out of his lungs. Neither a pillow nor the void were currently available, however, so Stiles contented himself with watching Derek disappear from his line of sight and his life, inevitably, and drove home.

            He was already lying down when he realized Derek had stolen his cutlery.


	2. Chapter 2

            Peter had talked Derek into baking a cake.

            "You are not going to give that thing back empty." He had said. He'd been cranky when Derek had first shown up, then excited when he smelled the steak, then cranky again when he opened the lid to find nothing, only the residual smell remaining after Derek had licked it clean. "Your mother raised you better than that, if I recall."

            It was always useless to argue with Peter, and more so on the full moon. He could go from funny uncle to homicidal in seconds. He liked Derek and Cora and tolerated Laura, but it was never smart to annoy him, even if he was still half-covered in burn marks and melted skin.

            So Derek had agreed and baked the cake and put the nicest smelling pieces in the clean Tupperware. He'd washed the plaid shirt and ironed it, had folded it carefully. He had polished the fine silverware Stiles had given him and put a handwritten thank-you note on the top of the pile.

            The plan was to leave the things by the front door and get away unnoticed. Go in after the Sheriff got in from his night shift, get out before Stiles could leave for school, maybe catch a fresh whiff of his mouth-watering scent and be done with the whole thing. Instead, he was hunched behind a tree just outside the Stilinskis back yard listening as father and son fought about him.

            "And I had to hear it from Melissa! Do you even _understand_ how lucky you are he decided to just catch a ride? I could be looking for your goddamned _body_ right now, Stiles!"

            The Sheriff was yelling at the top of his lungs. By now the whole block must know he and Stiles had had a little rendezvous the past Friday, and probably Mr. Rodriguez, the nahual from three blocks over, knew too. But this Melissa had probably only seen Derek leaving the Jeep, or the Sheriff and Stiles would be having a very different conversation.

            "And after you talked to him at the station, too! After you gave him _dinner_. Why? What were you thinking?"

            Derek could hear the Sheriff's heartbeat, its too quick stutter just background noise, like the heartbeats of the rest of the neighborhood or the small animals in the trees around Derek. Stiles heart, and his voice, Derek heard as though by his side.

            "It's hard to explain", he said, much quieter than his father. "I just knew he wasn't going to hurt me."

            "You just _knew_." Sheriff Stilinski repeated. He was talking at a normal volume now, but there was an edge to his voice that spelled trouble.

            "I'm a good judge of character?" Stiles answered, unsure. "I'm mostly right about these things."

            "You don't say." The Sheriff said. He sounded near apoplectic. Derek could imagine the red smell of his rage. "So going around with a possible serial killer seemed like an acceptable risk to you."

            "Well, yes." Stiles confirmed. Somehow, he sounded more confident in the face of his father's anger. "I don't think he's a bad person, or dangerous." And then he added, growing bolder, "He's an asshole, though."

            And just like that, Derek was floored again. Stiles had that gift, it seemed. He tuned out the Sheriff's answer, kneeling in the dirt with Stiles' things in his arms before his legs failed him, almost feeling Stiles' hands keeping his own warm and the taste of his skin on his mouth.

            Derek could barely remember the last time he had been with someone who didn't smell at least a bit afraid of him. They knew his reputation, or saw the wolf in him. He'd had Stiles' neck between his teeth that night, but Derek had been the vulnerable one, more prey than predator. He had just been slow to realize it.

            He sighed, refocusing on Stiles' heartbeat and then on his voice.

            "And how am I supposed to go to school?" Stiles was saying now, voice closer to screaming but still far more calmer than the Sheriff's. "Or to work? I thought I was supposed to go straight to Mr. Walcott's?"

            "Keys. Now", Sheriff Stilinski said.

            Derek could hear Stiles huffing, then something metallic hitting wood.

            "Dad, how long is this going to last?" Stiles asked with a hint of resignation creeping into his voice. He sounded like he was used to not getting his way, but would keep trying regardless.

            "You can have your Jeep back when I can trust your judgment again." The Sheriff answered, his anger masking his tiredness. "Go get ready for school. _Now_ , Stiles." He sighed. "You'll thank me when you don't have to run after the bus."

            Stiles thumped his way up some stairs, and the Sheriff breathed a long, tired sign. Soon, he was following his son to the second floor of the house, but while Derek could hear Stiles opening drawers, pulling clothes and making a general mess, the Sheriff fell silent, his breathing evened out and he fell asleep.

            Derek was up and circling back to the front of the house before he could second guess himself. The morning was clear, calm, still with a hint of rain in the air. The Stilinskis' neighbors were immersed in their own routine again, once the shouting match ended, and Derek felt no eyes on him as he walked to the front door.

            He could just put Stiles' things on the first step, turn around and go away with nobody being wiser to his presence. This secret kindness would stay just between them. He had no excuse to linger. But Stiles' heartbeat was getting closer to the door, so Derek stayed. He wanted to.

            When Stiles opened the door, muttering about why did he sell his old bike, he almost slammed into Derek. His curiosity made Derek's nose itch, but under it his smell was the same as the last time they had seen each other, warm and inviting and overwhelming. Unafraid.

            "Derek!" Stiles said. He recovered quickly from his shock, the tangy smell giving way to something sweet like cheerfulness. He smiled and tilted his head, and Derek had to tear his eyes from the spot on his neck he had bitten. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

            He sounded pleased to be wrong. Derek had to smile back at him.

            "I brought your stuff", he said. He hadn't meant to grab it in the first place. He had only known he was raw, _Stiles_ had made him raw, and if Stiles touched him he would break. He'd grabbed the first thing at hand to shield himself. Derek only had noticed exactly what he had grabbed when Peter had started asking questions about it.

            Well. At least he didn't grab a part of the Jeep.

            "Thanks!" Stiles chirped, blushing a little. He accepted the things and immediately began digging for something. "I've never seem this shirt ironed before, you didn't − hey, is that a thank you note?" He stopped short and examined the piece of paper with a sort of careful attention that smelled intimidating and attractive at the same time. "Your handwriting is cute."

            "Calligraphy classes." Derek explained. It wasn't a very good explanation, judging by Stiles' face. "My mother made me."

            That was better, if the way Stiles' face softened was any indication. He went back to looking through his things until he found the silverware. Then he looked at Derek with a smile far shier than any he had given him before.

            "Thanks for bringing those back." He said. "You didn't have to polish them, really, but I appreciate the sentiment."

            Derek shrugged. He had put as much care in the silverware as in any of the other things. He hadn't known what might be important, if anything.

            "I appreciated the steak. We're almost even." At Stiles' questioning glance, Derek added: "I can give you a ride to school if you want. I heard the Sheriff yelling about your Jeep."

            "And about other things too, I guess." Stiles blush intensified to a deep crimson. Derek wondered what color he would get after a real work out if he got like this over some light embarrassment.

            "Yes." Derek agreed easily. Eavesdropping on people was part of werewolf culture. If something was secret, it should also be unspoken. "Yes or no on that ride?"

            Stiles bit his lower lip and looked straight into Derek's eyes as he considered the question. Around them, the world was still turning, Derek knew: he could hear people leaving for work, an old woman walking her dog, a driver whistling as he started his car. Yet, for them time was frozen, the same way it had happened at the police station or any time their eyes met.

            Werewolves didn't care about appearance as much as they cared about smell, and Derek was no exception, but even he could see how pretty Stiles' eyes were. They met Derek's gaze squarely the way few people, supernatural or mundane, could. Derek knew he was looking at his equal. He had to make a conscious effort to not lean in, bite his throat again, smell him from up close.

            "Just let me put those things away." Stiles answered after a moment and turned around. He left the door open, but didn't invite Derek in. From the porch, Derek watched as he climbed and then came down the stairs with far more care than before. The Sheriff was snoring as Derek insisted Stiles locked the belt on the passenger side of his Camaro.

 

 

 

            He had dropped Stiles off a few blocks away from the school at Stiles' own suggestion after an uneventful ride, with the promise to pick him up and drive him to his new job at the Walcott's organic grocery shop in the afternoon. The _how_ and _why_ Derek had come to promise anything were unclear even to him, but he couldn't say he minded.

            Now he was parked outside Beacon Hills Memorial, waiting for Peter to be done with his physical therapy for the day to sneak him out so they could go on patrol, and smoking to get the scent of Stiles' arousal out of his nostrils. The smoke helped a little, as it did every time he wanted to dull his senses and forget the world around him, but not as much as he had hoped. Not by far.

            Peter left through the front entrance, as always. No doubt some poor harried staff member would call Laura in an hour or so to tell her they had lost her catatonic uncle for the ninth time this month. Derek couldn't muster a lot of sympathy, since he was the one who would put up with Peter in their place.

            When his uncle sat on the passenger side, Derek put his cigarette out and threw the bud on the street. Peter tsked disapprovingly by his side.

            "I take things didn't go that well with jailbait?" He asked, amused. Already his scent − burnt, bitter and sterile − was covering Stiles' and putting Derek on edge. "Did you remember to add the vanilla extract to the batter? No one ever won any hearts with cake that tasted like eggs."

            "It went fine." Derek grunted. And it had, because his goal had been to thank Stiles, not to mount him in the back of his car, however much he might like that. However much, _Stiles_ smelled like he might like that. Then Derek added, because he’d never known how to keep things from Peter. "He didn't see the cake. I caught him leaving for school."

            Peter was quite for a moment, no doubt trying to judge his honesty by his heartbeat. After a moment, he seemed to remember _he_ was the one who taught Derek to keep his vitals steady when lying and went on.

            "It's not a lost cause if you don't want it to be. The two of you managed to stink up the leather seats, so that's something." He said distractedly, picking at the scars on his hand, and then seemed to realize what he had said. "Why were the two of you together inside the car if nothing happened?"

            Derek did not blush, but it was a close thing. Instead, he kept his eyes on the road as he took the exit for the preserve, concentrating on the traffic. There were just two cars near enough for Derek to hear their engines, but it was a faint sound.

            "I gave him a ride." He answered. When Peter sniggered Derek punched him in the belly, bypassing his scared side. "What?"

            "Did you at least ask for his number?" Peter asked. When Derek didn't say anything, he rolled his eyes. "Careful, you'll be his chauffer before getting to second base at this rate."

            "I have his number." Derek grunted. It had been Stiles' idea to program it into his phone and vice-versa, but Peter didn't need to know that. "And that reminds me: let's wrap it up quick today, I said I'd pick him up from school."

            "My predictions are coming true already." Peter signed, going back to picking at his scars. "Go to the west side, then."

            "That's Laura's side." Derek pointed out, even as he did as instructed and pulled into the side road that would take them as close to the west part of the preserve as it was possible to go by car.

            "It's the Nemeton's side. And she hasn't been patrolling as she should because of her damned fundraiser." Peter bit out angrily. "We should do it. You already had to deal with that omega last week, and she didn't get in from your side, or mine, or Cora's."

            "The Alpha should have a good image in the town." Derek said, even knowing it was useless. Laura had many faults as an Alpha, slacking off in patrol the least of them, but his uncle was unlikely to forgive even a minor transgression after their fight. "Mom used to do it too."

            "Talia had a different situation in her hands." Peter answered, drumming his clawed fingers on his thighs. "And a different pack." He added with a knowing look at Derek.

            He didn't take the bait. Ever since he had taken on some of Peter's responsibilities when it became evident his injuries would take longer than normal to heal, Peter couldn't let a day pass without reminding Derek he was doing a subpar job, just as he couldn't stop complaining about Laura not being Talia.

            The worst thing was Derek agreed on both accounts. But if he let Peter know, he would never hear the end of it. So, he kept quiet. They made the rest of the journey in a tense silence Peter would try to break with a pointed jab every few minutes, to Derek's growing annoyance.

            The floor had become earth instead of asphalt by the time they stopped. It wasn't the end of the road, but from then on it was too rocky for the Camaro. They got out of the car and the green smells of the forest engulfed them at once. Derek drew a deep breath and was already shifted when he exhaled. Peter did the same by his side. He smelled happier here than he ever did in town those days. The antiseptic odor of the hospital was already leaving him.

            They ran together for a while, more play than vigilance in their stances. It had been too long since they had last done this. Derek missed it all the time, the feeling of _pack pack pack_ thrumming in his veins, even if he wished Cora and Laura were there too. Peter must have missed it even more, confined to the hospital all the time except for when Derek or Cora needed him.

            Peter was only a few steps ahead of Derek, his burned skin overstretching but more flexible than even a month ago. Derek wanted to yell for him to take it easy, to go slower, but the smell of Peter's sweat was mixing with his joy, so Derek let it go. In the end, he smelled the change in his uncle's scent a second before registering the transformation on the woods around them. 

            "Split and search. Howl if you need me." Derek said. Peter turned away without an answer, taking off even before Derek was done talking. Derek went the other direction with a sense of dread mounting on the pit of his stomach. He could smell someone unwelcome had been around recently. Again.

            The preserve was the place to go when looking for intruders. Hundreds of supernatural beings passed by Beacon Hills every day, and many ended up staying for good, if they knew why or not. Many of the mundane citizens had a touch of supernatural in their blood too, though it rarely manifested itself. The Hale pack had always permitted their presence, as long as Hale authority and laws were respected. But it was easy to go unnoticed and unauthorized if one kept to the town, even though Derek and Cora went on daily patrols with their senses fully expanded.

            Supernatural beings always ended at the preserve, though. The call of the Nemeton was too strong, and few tried to resist it in the first place. If a supernatural being was making trouble, it was easier to get a sense of them in the woods and then track them into town. Once they had their scent, it would be almost impossible to hide, even among humans and the mask of civilized life.

            Whatever had been on the preserve was foul. The rotten smell tainted the very soil under Derek's feet, much more pronounced than the natural cycle of decay and renewal of the forest. He halted to a stop and started walking slowly, trying to pinpoint a precise location, a starting point, but the stench was all around him, not fading nor getting stronger. Something had been in this area for a significant amount of time, enough to mark territory and cover their tracks.

            He was growling under his breath, gums itching to tear apart whoever had done this as he walked in circles. Peter's howl came almost as a relief. Derek answered the call and started running towards him, claws extended and fangs bared, ready for a fight. But he found no struggle when he arrived.

            Peter was unscathed and human again, his back to Derek, half-hidden by the trees as he leaned forward to look at what appeared to be a shallow grave. If not for the way the stench of rot mixed with the metallic tang of blood and pure, unadulterated terror, it could have been a peaceful scene. Peter was covering his nose with his jacket sleeve, always a bad sign. Derek understood why as he approached.

            "That's not who we are looking for." Derek said, swallowing the bile that had risen to his throat. He could feel his eyes getting wet, irritated by the fumes in the air.

            "No." Peter agreed. "Just one of their victims. But there is something wrong with this."

            "Besides the obvious?" Derek asked. Even after everything he had seen and done, he was having a hard time looking at the corpse at his feet. It had been an old man once, grey hair and wrinkles around the eyes. He must have had a denture at some point, but now his mouth was empty and open in a silent scream.

            No doubt any animal that could have desecrated the body had been put off by the smell on this part of the woods, but something with sharp teeth had still bitten his belly and chest open, decided it didn't want him after all, and left the half-chewed flesh on the cavities they had been torn from.

            "There's a gash on his neck." Peter pointed out. "Like a werewolf kill."

            "That wasn't a werewolf." Derek said, almost defensive, shifting back to his human form. He knew werewolves were just people at the end of the day. They could be as horrible as hunters. He _had_ killed his share of omegas who thought they could terrorize Beacon Hills after most of his pack was gone, but even the ones who went after humans hadn't been like that. "There is just one cut."

            "I know. And I don't think that was what killed him. Too little arterial spray." Peter mused. His jacket muffled his voice, and Derek almost had to strain his ears to catch his words.

            "That's for the coroner to worry about." Derek decided after looking at the grave for a moment. He couldn't see where all the bloody had come from, just from whom. Turning his back to the grave, he got a cigarette from his pocket, lightened it and inhaled the smoke in a hurry, concentrating on the acrid smell of burning tobacco, letting the putrefaction around him fade to the background. "Let's worry about finding who did this."

            "You let me and Laura take care of it." Peter said, already reaching for his phone and calling their Alpha, turning to stand shoulder to shoulder with Derek. "Go get your jailbait from school before he finds another ride. It's almost three."

            Derek frowned, exhaling the smoke upwards. It felt wrong to think about Stiles and his beautiful scent while smelling the woods around him festering like an infected wound. Two different worlds.

            "He's better off walking home." He snorted, not liking the bitterness in his own voice but unable to stop it. He knew he had no business chasing after Stiles like a lovesick puppy. The whole thing, from their failed attempted at a hook up last Friday to their easy conversation on the Camaro this morning, was one mistake after another.

            Peter just rolled his eyes, the smell of his annoyance reaching Derek through the miasma chocking the forest. He always hated it when he felt his family was out-drama-ing him.

            "Maybe, maybe not. But he's expecting you." He said. Laura picked up and Peter spat, "Finally! Wait a minute," before cutting her off, covering the speaker, and turning to Derek again. "And I think you could _really_ use having something to look forward to right about now."

            He turned around again, facing the grave, and Derek knew he was dismissed.

 

 

 

            Stiles was talking to a redhead by the school sign when Derek pulled over under some trees near the school entrance. He saw the Camaro and waved before picking his bag from the floor and saying goodbye to the girl. She watched as Stiles walked to Derek's car, but no one else did, even though there were students milling about everywhere.

            He smelled as lovely as he had in the morning, only more sweaty and sad. The defeated slouch in his shoulders as he sat heavily on the soft leather was new too, Derek noticed, but fit well with Derek's own depressed mood.

            "Hi." Derek whispered. He should probably start the Camaro and get going, but a line of cars was forming, and he wanted to delay dropping Stiles off as much as possible. He stayed put, both hands glued to the steering wheel as he waited for the buzz of activity around them to slow down. Within the tinted windows of his car, they had as much privacy as could be expected in a public parking lot. "Are you alright? You sm− you seem off."

            Stiles looked at him, his droopy eyes blinking slowly as he leaned into the leather. At once, Derek was hooked. He could feel his nostrils flaring as he tried to take all of Stiles in from a distance, almost on reflex.

            "Hey, Derek." He answered quietly, lips barely moving. "Just a rough day."

            "Did something happen?" Derek insisted. Anyone else and he would not keep trying, would be better at respecting boundaries. But something in Stiles was pulling him in, and he needed to _know_. "Maybe I can help."

            "Can you make my best friend stop giving me the cold shoulder and revoke my status as the school pariah?" Stiles said, blinking again. His pretty eyes looked too bright, and there was a suspicious smell of salt in the air.

            _If he cries, I might do something stupid_ , Derek thought, a sudden rage blooming in his chest. He drew another deep breath, focusing more on Stiles' charming base scent and less on the smell of his emotions until he could feel his own heart rate calm down.

            "We could go for ice cream." He suggested, helpless. His fingers were itching to hold Stiles' hand, to circle his wrist and caress his palm. Just touch him. Give him some comfort, like he had done to Derek before so easily. "My sisters swear by it."

            That startled a laugh out of Stiles. He hiccupped, scratched his short hair and smelled almost back to this morning's sweet cheerfulness.

            "Nah, thanks. I kind of brought it onto myself. Make your bed and lie in it and all that." He snorted. "Plus, you've more than paid your debt. Don't tell Roscoe I said that, but your car is the best. I feel like I'm riding on a cloud."

            "I don't mind." Derek said, starting the Camaro. The street was beginning to empty a little, and soon there would be almost no one loitering around. "Fasten your seatbelt."

            Stiles obeyed with a grumble. They had had the same argument in the morning, with Stiles complaining about Derek's own lack of a seatbelt and his "grandma driving", but he had budged when he picked up on Derek's anxiety about having a fragile, breakable human under his care.

            "Don't you want to know who Roscoe is?" He asked, fidgeting on his seat as Derek pulled into traffic. No one but the redhead had bothered to look at Stiles as he had gone, but every single student was gawking at the Camaro now. Derek was chagrined, already imagining how this was going to get back to Sheriff Stilinski. By his side, Stiles smelled merely curious.

            "It's your Jeep." Derek answered, trying to hide a smile. No use letting Stiles know he found his affection for his beatenup car endearing. "Don't worry, I don't usually talk to inanimate objects."

            "Watch that mouth!" Stiles laughed. "He's a better conversationalist than you."

            "Really." He deadpanned. He had to smile more when Stiles laughed harder. The smell of his happiness was irresistible.

            "Not really." Stiles finally admitted. "He's actually very moody, but you need to have patience with him. He's a senior citizen." He sighed. "I miss him already."

            "It's not even been a day." Derek pointed out, even if he understood where Stiles was coming from. He hated having to depend on people, his pack included. He went so far as to always use the self-checkout when shopping, though nowadays it was more for the cashier's peace of mind than anything else.

            "I know. I'll be lost tomorrow. Even if I get the bus for school, I'll be late for work on my second day, and then Dad will just lock me inside forever." He complained. "Lydia offered to take me, but I don't want to drag her down with me to my pit of un-coolness. She already took a hit just talking to me today."

            _People should be lining up to be near you_ , Derek thought, upset at the sudden sourness in Stiles' scent. He still had a little smile on his lips, but it was evident he was taking his isolation hard.

            "I'm sorry." Derek said. At Stiles confused look, he explained. "It's my fault you are grounded again. Your father didn't want you talking to me at the station." _Or at all_ , he thought, guilt-ridden.

            But Stiles just rolled his eyes and put his feet on the Camaro's panel. He had taken off his sneakers at some point. His socks were a green and yellow eyesore, but his feet smelled like baby powder. Derek wanted to bite them.

            "And look how well that turned out for him: you and me, alone in your car, spending some quality time together for the second time in a row in the name of my punctuality." He grinned. "You are just a giant, scary, hot teddy-bear, aren't you, Derek? Thought so." Stiles blushed slightly, but steamrolled through Derek's glare and objections. "You have nothing to be sorry about, really. It was my decision to talk to you in the first place. Don't sweat it."

            "I'm going to take you to and from school and work tomorrow." He decided abruptly. Even as he said it, Derek knew he was going overboard. But no matter what Stiles said, it _was_ Derek's fault he was grounded. It was only fair. "I can keep giving you rides until you're not grounded anymore."

            The smell of Stiles' confusion filled the car, but was soon replaced by spicy excitement. Derek chanced a glance at him after a stop sign and saw him trying and failing to hide a smile behind his hand.

            "Not that I'm complaining about having a private driver," he said, "but don't you have work or something?"

            "My hours are flexible." Derek answered. And it was the truth. He didn't need to keep to a routine to run patrols, intimidate trespassers and kill the occasional stubborn omega who just wouldn't fuck off. And Peter had all but forbidden him from looking into that weirdness at the preserve, so he should have some free time.

            _He shouldn't be walking alone all over town with whoever did that at large_ , Derek thought. If Stiles had a tendency to go looking for trouble, better to have a two hundred pound werewolf escorting him places.

            "Oh. What do you do?" Stiles asked. His curiosity made Derek's nose itch again. It was bright enough that Derek had to hold in a sneeze.

            "I help my uncle with his part of the family business." He said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. It had been a while since anybody had asked, and he had never quite mastered the art of talking without giving too much away. His tactic had always been to stay silent. "Keeping information up to date and dealing with business rivals, mostly. Research, sometimes."

            Stiles hummed noncommittally, but the smell of his curiosity didn't abate at all.

            "Sounds exciting." He lied, and shrugged when Derek snorted. "Well, more exciting than what I'm about to do."

            They had reached Walcott's organic grocery shop, a tiny corner store recently opened at the edge of town. The family of four who ran it lived above the store. Derek had checked it out when it first opened, but the owners smelled boringly mundane, so he had avoided the place on principle ever since. It disgusted the carnivore in him, and Stiles seemed to agree.

            He still had half an hour before his shift, going by what he had told Derek in the morning. Stiles made no move to leave the Camaro and go in early. No regards to making a good first impression or familiarizing himself with the job. _So much for being the perfect employee_ , Derek thought, amused.

            "Maybe you could do with a little less excitement in your life, Stiles." Derek said with a smirk. "I imagine you could stand to _not_ be grounded."

            "Obviously. But I'll be the judge to how much excitement I can take, I think." Stiles licked his lips nervously, tilting his head a little as he regarded Derek with open interest. "Can I ask you something?"

            Derek felt his mouth salivating as he looked from Stiles' wet lips to his neck. The phantom memory of the taste of his skin between his teeth was as sudden as it was tempting. He tightened his hold on the steering wheel to stop himself from touching him.

            When his eyes met Stiles', Derek knew he was giving his want away, like he had done at the station, like he had done in front of the hospital. It wasn't like in the morning, the low-burn of arousal on both of them pleasing but controlled.

            _We are both thinking about fucking each other_ , Derek thought. It was frightening and exhilarating at the same time. He had wanted Stiles from the moment he could smell him at the station, when he was at the front desk, and Stiles had wanted him too. Many people had, Stiles just saw something else from them when he looked at Derek.

            "Yes." He said in a rasp. That would be his answer to almost anything Stiles asked right now.

            Stiles smiled a bit and licked his lips again. He was starting to blush, but for now his cheeks were only a light pink.

            "Why did you stop that night?" He asked. His smell turned a little unsure, a little murky, but he persisted. "Did I do something? You seemed scared all of sudden and then took off without explanation."

            Derek snorted. Admitting the truth was embarrassing, but he could appreciate the irony in it.

            "I was scared." He said. When Stiles frowned, opening his mouth to ask why, no doubt, Derek went on. "You scared me."

            That shut Stiles up. He gaped at Derek open mouthed, then started gesticulating wildly and huffing. Words were not enough to express his indignation, it seemed. When he finally recovered, Derek had retreated to the edge of his seat to avoid being hit in the face, so Stiles turned to him and shortened the distance between them, getting up to his face to yell at him better.

            "I'm one hundred fifty pounds soaking wet, dude!" He screamed. Up close like that, Derek was finding it even more difficult not to dip his nose to the hollow of Stiles' throat and inhale his fury, but if Stiles noticed the heated gaze Derek was giving him, he ignored it. "What could I have done to you?"

            "What you have already done." Derek answered without hesitation. Something about Stiles seemed to compel the truth out of him. "You are weird, did you know? No one else would have let me in like that."

            "I do know, thanks. People tell me all the time." Stiles said. He seemed to notice how close he had gotten to Derek, but made no move to get away. Instead, he studied Derek's face with half-lidded eyes and slowly moved his right hand to touch Derek's hair. A smile touched his lips, and his scent changed to something so delicious Derek didn't even try to be discreet when breathing him in. "It sounds different when you say it."

            "I mean it differently." Derek said. He meant it as _brave_ , but the word was stuck in his throat. Before he could question himself, Derek put his hands at Stiles waist, under his shirt, and squeezed lightly. He would go crazy if he didn't touch him.

            "Are you scared of me right now?" Stiles asked in a whisper. There was an amused smirk in the corner of his mouth begging to be kissed away. Derek tried to do just that, but Stiles turned his face, ducking with a snort.

            Derek nuzzled his cheek instead, heady to breath him in as he rubbed small circles on Stiles' hipbones. Stiles put both hands on Derek's head and threaded his fingers in his hair, tugging him away until Derek was looking at his face again.

            When Derek leaned forwards this time, Stiles stayed put and let himself be kissed with a sigh. He tasted like artificial lemons, nervousness and excitement. Derek wanted to devour him whole, push him until he was laying under his body and make him ache.

            He made himself go slow, though, coaxing Stiles' mouth open wider with little bites and licks. When Stiles started kissing back, smelling more confident and aroused, Derek let himself lick the roof of his mouth, suck on his tongue, bite harder on his bottom lip.

            It was Stiles who broke the kiss, panting. He smiled at Derek with swollen lips and dilated pupils, moving his hands from Derek's hair to his jaw, the tips of his fingers scratching Derek's stubble. Derek smiled too, couldn't stop himself as he squeezed Stiles' hips harder and pulled him closer. He smelled so sweet it made Derek giddy.

            "I am scared." Derek confessed. He dropped his head to Stiles' shoulder, rubbed his jaw against his neck, kissed it open-mouthed and soothingly when Stiles shivered. "Not exactly of you. You're just weird."

            "Be brave, Derek." Stiles said. He smelled a bit embarrassed, but also content and warm and aroused. Derek pressed his nose hard to his neck. "This is really just the tip of the iceberg."

            With a laugh, Derek straightened in his seat, taking his weight off of Stiles. They were almost the same height, so their eyes were level. Stiles didn't take his hands off of Derek's face, but leaned forward and gave him a peck on the lips. He lingered longer than a chaste kiss required, and when he pulled away Derek followed him.

            "I have to go now, I'm going to be late." Stiles said, stealing a look at the clock blinking on the Camaro's panel. He let go of Derek with some reluctance, and Derek mirrored him after a last caress to his hips. "Will you really pick me up later?"

            "Wait for me inside. I'll text you when I get here." Derek answered in a raspy voice. He watched as Stiles left the car in a flail of limbs, watched until he was safely inside, and stayed some time after, hearing his heart, smoking and trying to calm down.

            When they had first met, Stiles had said he didn't look for trouble, but trouble found him always. And Derek had been unconvinced, but now... He knew he _was_ trouble, even if his remaining family thought of him as a softy, even if the supernatural people in Beacon Hills regarded him as a pillar of the community as the Hale pack executioner and enforcer. Even if the odd mundane who remembered him as a round-faced kid or a polite teenager thought there was no way sweet Derek Hale had killed those people.

            Maybe the decent thing to do would be to not let anything more happen with Stiles, to not pursue it. Just give him the rides he had offered, keep him safe until Laura and Peter had dealt with the whatever in the preserve, say good-bye from a safe distance and keep just the memory of him.

            He already knew he wouldn't do that, though. Derek could lie to himself again, but what was the point? When Stiles was near, he would reach for him and try to keep him close for as long as Stiles allowed. He wanted to let it happen and so he would.

            Derek was trouble, and Stiles was a trouble-magnet. That was the truth, even if it made Derek feel guilty.

            Decision taken, he threw the cigarette bud on the street, started the Camaro and went for a patrol on the town proper. He only had until 8pm to sniff around and give Laura the daily all-clear.


	3. Chapter 3

            Stiles was lying down on Lydia's very pink, very soft bed while she walked around her room gathering papers in her arms with a deep concentration line between her eyebrows, her little dog following her every step. It would have been unthinkable a month ago, but now late Sunday afternoons like this were common place. The surprising part was that instead of being uncontrollably turned on by this dream come true, Stiles was feeling mildly annoyed.

            With a little gasp of satisfaction, Lydia pulled one last sheet of paper from under a book and jumped on the bed, making Stiles bounce. Prada started yelping for attention, but Lydia ignored him and offered the pile of papers to Stiles with an expectant look.

            He accepted it with a huff. Stiles already knew what it was, because Lydia had been threatening to compile a “Hale dossier” from the day she had seen Stiles entering Derek’s car. But being right didn’t make him any happier, he discovered.

            “You didn’t pull this shit when Scott and Allison started going out”, he muttered, flipping through the pages and letting his eyes wander to the interesting bits. There were mostly articles from the Beacon Gazette, organized by date; lots of reports about bodies found with slashed throats, some with pictures of Derek entering or leaving the Police Station.

            Then there was the news of social events, galas, fundraisers and such. It seemed like a family tradition: they happened well before the Hale fire, organized by Talia Hale and by her mother before her. After the fire there was a lull, only for activities to pick up two years later in force, this time thanks to Laura Hale.

            And finally, the fire itself. It had made national news, if the inclusion of Times and Post articles was to be trusted. Lydia had gone above and beyond, including the court transcriptions of the Katherine Argent trial. Stiles had to stop when photos of Peter Hale’s burns turned up together with his medical reports.

            “I can see why it took you this long.” Stiles said, grinning. The researcher in him was falling for Lydia all over again, even if the part of him that wanted his only current friend to approve of his boyfriend was upset. Some of this information had to be classified. “I confess I thought this would be much more, er… Derek-centered.”

            “I wanted more of a general panorama.” Lydia said, twirling a red curl on her finger. “Plus, there’s not much to say about him specifically besides the fact he was interrogated about seventy-three murders in the past six years. He won a spelling-bee contest in fourth grade, if you are interested.”

            “Aw, that’s cute.” Stiles signed. “I’ll put his trophy next to the twenty I got from participating on the Little League when we get married.” He laughed at Lydia’s outraged pout. “Seriously, though, you missed the last one. I suppose it’s not made the news yet.”

            “What are you talking about?” Lydia asked, lying down next to him. Stiles smiled a bit, thinking of how much easier his life would be if he was still in love with her. It had been so _safe_. She looked so lovely under the warm light coming through her window, the most beautiful girl Stiles had ever seen.

            “They found another body. Slashed throat, but something ate bits of the stomach and legs while the guy was still alive.” He said, flipping through the dossier again. There was a gossip column saying how Laura Hale, the newly reestablished town darling, had set the date of her first charity ball on the same day Victoria Argent had set hers. “My Dad thinks Derek must have a wild animal caged somewhere. He’s trying to get warrants to search any property he owns.”

            Derek had texted him in the middle of his shift last Friday, saying he couldn’t make it to pick Stiles up that afternoon, and asking if he had a way to get home, like a good little significant other. After Stiles had confirmed that yes, his boss’ son had offered him a ride, Derek had sent a smiley face, and Stiles had answered with a kiss emoji and taken the bus, because he actually really hated his boss and his whole vegan family.

            He had said it was business keeping him, but Stiles wasn’t surprised when Dad got home fuming about another useless interrogation session. Today, when another call had come in and interrupted what was supposed to be their weekly father-son bonding session disguised as a chess competition, Dad had given Stiles a long hug before dropping him off at Lydia’s. The newest victim had probably been young.

            “The Hales own at least half the town, plus part of the preserve. That’s a lot of places to hide something.” Lydia commented. “Did your Dad tell you all this? I thought you were in the dog house, still.”

            “I am”, Stiles confirmed with a snort. “But I have my sources, as do you.” He pointed to the papers now resting between them. “By the way, what do you want me to get from the story of the Hale family in Beacon Hills?”

            “You tell me, you’re the one good with patterns.” Lydia retorted, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “If you can go through all this stuff and honestly say there’s nothing fishy about your boyfriend, I’ll let it go.”

            “I wouldn’t… never mind.” Stiles stammered. He picked the papers and got up, sitting down again at the end of the bed. When Lydia followed him, he pretended to be immersed in the reading, avoiding her eyes even as she leaned into his space, trying to force visual contact. Prada had stopped barking, probably off to chew Lydia’s slippers again.

            “You wouldn’t what?” She asked sharply. Stiles tried to turn slightly and give his back to her, but Lydia caught his shoulder in a vice-like grip and stopped him. She even took the papers from his hands for good measure, and put them on her bed. “Stiles, you wouldn’t _what_?”

            “I wouldn’t say there’s nothing strange going on with Derek.” Stiles confessed. He could feel his face burning with the words, the disloyalty tasting like acid on his tongue, but it was still true. “I’m just not sure it’s outright murder, okay? All this stuff is circumstantial at best.”

            Stiles threw himself on the bed, jostling the papers to the side, and stared at the ceiling, willing the purple paint to give him an argument, a _substantial_ argument, to sway Lydia. His gut feeling hadn’t convinced Dad, and it wouldn’t convince her, most likely, no matter how right he _knew_ he was.

            He heard her sighing next to him, but refused to look at her, even when her pointy nails poked  him between the ribs.

            “And what do you think is going on?” She asked quietly.

            Stiles looked at her then, and their eyes met. Lydia held his gaze as steadily as Derek, but Stiles no longer felt that irresistible pull towards her, not with the same intensity as he did with Derek. If he ever truly had. It was hard to say, since she had never allowed it when he was still smitten with her, but now it was too late. _We’ve both changed_ , Stiles thought, not without a little sadness.

            “I did my own Hale dossier before Derek and I started going out, you know.” Stiles said, jumping up. He bent over and picked up Prada from the carpeted floor, scratching the dog behind the ears. Lydia seemed surprised at that, but just waited for him to continue.

            It had been the weekend between the Friday he took Derek to the hospital and the Monday when he had showed up at Stiles’ doorstep. He had been frustrated beyond belief by Derek and his bait-and-switch-y ways after their first attempt at hooking up, even let a few angry-tears fall. So, he had started researching the cases were Derek had been a person of interest, telling himself the whole time he was better off with nothing having happened, but somehow that had morphed into researching the Hales back to the founding mother of Beacon Hills up to the remaining members of the family.

            “My data is incomplete,” he said, pouting a little. “I’m still banished from the station. But it’s mostly what you’ve got, more or less. Picture perfect family until the arson, everybody goes crazy after. A historical rivalry with the Argents. Apparently, Peter Hale was the shady one before. He had a ‘consultation’ firm.” Stiles made the air quotes to express just how deeply unconvinced he was, but the effect was ruined when Prada got up from his lap and started barking loudly for more scratches. He had to hurry to appease him, but thankfully managed to stop himself before sinking into baby-talk.

            “Did it close after he was admitted to the hospital?” Lydia asked, frowning. The dissatisfied tilt of her eyebrow was making Stiles nervous, but he was supposedly dating a mass murderer. Lydia’s disapproval was not enough to stop him.

            “Officially, yes.” Stiles fidgeted, trying to get comfortable. The bed was far too soft for his taste. “But Derek is doing what used to be Peter’s job.”

            “And how did you figure that?” She arched her eyebrows at him, doubtful.

            “Derek told me.” He smiled at her incredulous expression. “It’s true. I asked what he did for a living, he said he helped his uncle manage his part of the family business, but didn’t give me any more details. Vague as hell.”

            Lydia shock her head slowly as realization dawned upon her.

            “You are dating the fucking mafia, Stiles!” She said, eyes rounded and bright. “Derek is the hitman. Oh my God. You need to dump him right now.”

            She reached for the phone on Stiles pocket as if in a haze, no regards for personal space or accidental dick-touching, dislodging Prada from Stiles’ lap as the little dog barked his displeasure. Stiles took her hand in his before she actually got to her goal, though, and turned to face her. It was almost strange how he had to look down to catch her eyes, he was so used to be eye-level when looking at the other people he locked-eyes with.

            “Listen to me, Lydia.” He began, licking his lips. His hands would be shaking if he wasn’t holding hers. “Derek is not a criminal, and he is not a bad person. You’ll just have to trust me on this, okay?”

            “Are you listening to yourself? You are completely blinded to reality just because you’re sleeping together!” She hissed, pulling her hand back and slapping her bed. No doubt what she really wanted was to slap him instead. Stiles truly appreciated her restraint.

            “We haven’t, actually.” Stiles corrected her, blushing and licking his lips. He started biting his nail, but stopped at Lydia’s unimpressed look. “Slept together. I mean, we slept, but not the, er… the awake kind of sleeping together.”

            “I’m familiar with the concept.” Lydia said with a sly smirk spreading on her full lips. “Who would have thought? Derek Hale, serial killer extraordinaire, afraid to put out.”

            “Hey!” Stiles laughed, relaxing at least. For all Lydia had been complaining about his relationship with Derek endlessly, he took it as a good sign that she was willing to joke with him about it. “Maybe I’m the one saving myself.”

            “Really?” Lydia arched a disdainful eyebrow at him. “How old are you again?” Then she put her palms up and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she had centered herself again.

_So close to getting off the hook_ , Stiles thought.

            “That’s irrelevant. Why do you want to keep dating a criminal?” Lydia asked.

            “Isn’t love a good enough answer?” Stiles winked at her, smiling his most charming smile and tilting his head.

            “No.” Lydia answered without hesitation. At Stiles’ surprised look, she kept going in a thin voice. “Jackson gave me the key to his house.” She looked pained as she avoided his gaze, but Stiles could see her eyes, round and glistening. She picked Prada up and let him lick her face. “That day, when we fought in the hallway… he wanted it back. I knew we were really over then. I should have just given it to him, but I panicked and told him I’d lost it. It’s even more stupid, looking back.”

            “That didn’t give him the right to say those things to you.” Stiles said after a long, awkward silence, still thrown by the sudden change in topic. For all Lydia seemed eager to judge Stiles’ love life, she had never opened up about hers to him. They had never talked about this, the real beginning of their friendship, not even while they had stared at Jackson’s destroyed Porsche. “You were together forever, he could at least have broken it up in private.”

            “He’s an ass,” Lydia agreed. “and I was in the wrong, anyway. But the more time goes on, the happier I am that it’s over. Aside from the key thing and watching the one movie that he liked anyway, he never really made an effort. It was always me accommodating him, always me compromising. It’s not worth it, even for love.”

            She put Prada on the floor and started gathering the papers she had given Stiles in a neat pile. Stiles just looked at her, feeling helpless. When she offered the papers to him this time, he took them less begrudgingly than he had before.

            “Even if you’re right, you are going to sacrifice a lot by being with Derek. Your Dad won’t like it, to begin with.” She shushed him when he tried to protest, putting a hand on his lips to keep them closed. “I know you haven’t been caught yet, but Stiles, you know it can’t last. He drives you around everywhere. You told me yourself you’ve been sneaking out on dates with him. Your Dad won’t hear about it from me, but he _will_ find out. What will you do then?”

            Stiles sighed. He had no answer. Once again, he was back at the same place, trying to argue for something he knew to be true without any proof.

            “Being gangster-like is not the same as being an actual gangster, okay? I know I’m right about Derek. If he ever killed someone, it was for a good reason, like self-defense, or an accident. Yes, it bothers me that I can’t really prove it, but I’m sure about this.”

            “If you could find proof, would you? Even risking being proved wrong or having your feelings for him change?” Lydia said, pinning him in place with the steel in her eyes alone.

            “I would.” Stiles answered honestly. He was _not_ wrong, he knew, and he doubted his feelings could change so easily. But curiosity had always been his tragic flaw, from the time he was five and put a piece of metal on the kitchen socket and short-circuited the whole block. If someone in his vicinity had a secret worth keeping, Stiles was sure to find his nose in their business sooner rather than later. Truth be told, he had been restraining himself with Derek.

            Lydia grinned at him.

            “Then let’s do it.”

 

 

 

            Stiles managed to leave Lydia’s house before she whipped The Notebook out from somewhere, saying he’d rather go home while it was still light outside. He had refused a ride and she hadn’t insisted, convinced as she was his boyfriend was behind the most recent string of horrifying murders around town and that thereof Stiles was safe. So he had time to reflect on their project and get depressed on the way home.

            For all his unstoppable nosiness and Lydia’s determination to ruin Stiles’ love life, there wasn’t much they could do with all the vast resources available to two teenagers. When Stiles had suggested he could try to snoop around the station again, Lydia had refused and told him she would get whatever files the Beacon Hills police had on her own, and refused to hear anything else about it.

            Without his usual method of going through Dad’s stuff, and with Danny ignoring him even harder than before the Porsche incident, Stiles was left with limited options. One of them being asking Derek what his deal was directly. He was seriously considering it even, as he opened the front door to find the house still empty, no sign of Dad anywhere, their game of chess untouched and unfinished on the living room shiny wood table.

            He looked at the board without really seeing it for a long time, unblinkingly. Then he texted Derek, asked if he wanted to do something, and went to take a shower without waiting for the answer.

            By the time the black Camaro turned on his block, Stiles was ready to go, perched on his bedroom window like a maiden in a tower waiting for her prince, if maidens were flailing losers who liked to bite their nails and princes were their scary but secretly soft hot pieces of asses enablers.

            Derek’s grin was so wide when Stiles got into the car that he almost stopped caring about all the weirdness surrounding him. He knew the same grin was reflected on his own face.

            “Where do you want to go?” Derek asked, nuzzling at Stiles’ neck. At first he had tried (and failed) to be discrete about how much he loved to do it, and to just rub his nose on Stiles’ skin in general, but since Stiles had given him the go ahead, he had become completely shameless.

            “Where do _you_ want to go?” Stiles asked back, treading his fingers in Derek’s coarse hair and scratching much like he had done to Prada. “What do you want to do?”

            So far, they had gone on some pretty amazing dates, if Stiles said so himself. They had gone to the movies the next town over a couple of times, and to the fair, to ride the Ferris wheel at Stiles’ request. Derek had blatantly let Stiles win at laser tag. He had baked Stiles another cake (chocolate this time) and they had eaten it together at Derek’s downtown apartment where his sisters and uncle were forbidden to go and watched all six Star Wars. They had gone cruising on Derek’s car with the radio playing softly, and talked even more softly, until the sun was rising, and Stiles just knew that would be one of his most cherished memories, forever.

            Through all this stolen moments, Derek still played chauffeur to Stiles almost every day, and let him go after every ride with kisses so tender they made Stiles’ heart ache.

            However, it had not escaped Stiles’ notice that he was always the one deciding where to go and what to do, and Derek bending backwards to please him, just as he had not missed how Derek had never let his hands wander south after that first rainy night. It was a long time coming, really, but his talk with Lydia this afternoon had cleared that much for him, at least. He didn’t want to be Derek’s Jackson.

            “What I want to do is still illegal in California.” Derek said, peppering little kisses all over his throat, letting up when Stiles breathed out a little sign. “Do you like swimming?”

            “You do know the sunset is in like, an hour, tops.” Stiles pointed out. It wasn’t even that warm, the end of spring approaching quicker than anyone would like. But it was more a token protest than anything else; in his mind, he was already dipping his toes into the water.

            “Afraid of the dark?” Derek teased with a smile, already starting the car and pulling into traffic. They weren’t going to the public pool, judging by the turns Derek was taking.

            _No_ , Stiles thought, _it calls to me_.

            “Show me what you’ve got, big guy.” He said instead. The further they went, the smaller Stiles’ doubts about the whole thing were. And that was how he wanted it right now, though it couldn’t last.

            They ended up at the preserve, in a part of the woods Stiles didn’t recognize, though he could have sworn he had walked every path that existed there at this point. He only knew this one was far from his preferred camping spot.

            “It’s private property.” Derek explained as he guided Stiles easily, avoiding rocks and holes with practiced ease even in the dimming light. Stiles wasn’t going to complain, he liked holding Derek’s hand too much to trade it for the inevitable combo of tripping and falling on his face that walking this terrain by himself would bring. “It’s been in my family for generations, not just the house, but a good chunk of the land around it.”

            “Sounds frightening, living all the way into the preserve like this.” Stiles said, realizing only belatedly that Derek knew exactly how, and why, that would be the case. He had lost a lot in these same woods.

            “It’s home.” Derek shrugged, squeezing Stiles’ hand reassuringly. He didn’t look mad or sadder than usual, but Stiles still felt a sudden urge to get closer and smooth the frown lines on his forehead. So he did, and won a smile for that. “Plus, it’s probably the safest place in town nowadays.”

            “I’ve always liked it here.” Stiles smiled back at him. “The west side is my favorite. I went camping there with my Dad, his buddies and their kids all the time when I was younger. Once I started sleepwalking and escaped from the camp without anyone noticing, can you believe? Dad was almost calling for a search team when he found me on top of some big ass tree stump, sleeping like a log, without so much as a skinned knee.” He laughed, recalling the incident. He hadn’t been the least bit afraid that day when he woke to Dad calling for him, hadn’t even felt cold, and so the sight of Dad, frantic and red-faced, looking for him still in his underwear, had been hilarious. “That was the end of all camping trips, though.”

            Derek was still smiling as Stiles told the story, but there was also a strange look in his eyes as he stopped walking and turned to face Stiles fully, a mix of curiosity and dread, almost. He hugged Stiles tight, even lifting him slightly from the ground, and rubbed his nose on the spot where Stiles’ neck met his shoulder, breathing deeply. Stiles hugged him back, puzzled.

            “Am I scaring you again?” He asked, teasingly, and heard Derek snort on his skin.

            “We should go camping there someday, if you like it so much” Derek said, putting Stiles back on the floor, eyes half-lidded like he was in a haze. He started walking again, much closer than before, a hand on the small of Stiles’ back instead of on his hand. “As soon as I’m less busy. I heard that side of the woods is not safe now, anyway.” He added. “Mountain lions.”

            The _don’t go there_ couldn’t be clearer, and Stiles felt immediately tempted. He was sure he was telegraphing his curiosity, but he did manage to swallow the many questions that wanted to spill from his mouth. If Derek noticed Stiles’ interest, he ignored it. He was too engrossed with scrunching up his nose.

            “Won’t mountain lions be a problem in this part of the preserve too?” He asked, squinting at Derek. It was getting too dark to see him clearly, even standing so close together. That was always a pity, because Derek was easily one of the most beautiful people Stiles had ever seen, and seemed to grow more beautiful with each kiss they shared. Stiles was extremely fond of looking at him.

            “They know better than to come here.” He answered with a harsh tone. “They can see signs there’s people around, so they are more cautious.”

            “Those are some smart mountain lions.” Stiles commented, and Derek snorted again. Then he sneezed and gave Stiles an imploring look, like it was Stiles’ fault he was getting a cold or something.

            The rest of the way was made in a comfortable silence. Derek was too busy guiding Stiles through the steep way to talk much, and Stiles was too busy trying to stay upright to get him to talk. They were on a path clearly unused by humans, judging by the untouched vegetation and the narrow way. But Derek didn’t misstep once, even stopped Stiles from stumbling on more than one occasion.

            _Let’s add night vision to superior hearing and developed olfactory senses_ , Stiles thought, trying to not feel guilty at analyzing his boyfriend and possibly invading his privacy. But in truth, when he had told Lydia something was off about Derek, he hadn’t been thinking about his serial killer reputation. It was _this_ he had been referring too, though she wouldn’t know. No one would, because he had told no one and nobody else in town had eyes, it seemed.

            _It’s not like he isn’t invading my privacy all the time_ , Stiles told himself. He was sure Derek had overheard the fight Stiles had had three weeks ago with Dad, at the least. And looking back, Stiles had strong suspicions about Derek listening in on his talk with Tara, the night they met.

            He only wished he could be properly mad about it. But if pressed (not that anyone would, why would they?), Stiles had to admit he wasn’t angry about Derek getting into his business. He wasn’t a hypocrite, Stiles could proudly say now, having been put to the test. Rather, what bothered him was that he didn’t _know_.

            “We’re almost there.” Derek said. The happiness in his voice made Stiles let go of the irritation he had been building with every step, as he thought about the mystery being rubbed in his nose and eluding him at the same time.

            “You are giving me a piggyback ride on the way back.” He told Derek, smiling.

            “I can do that.” Derek said, tugging Stiles by the hand a few steps off from the path. “Careful, there’s a branch near your foot.”

            “Where are we going, exactly? The creek is nowhere near here.” Stiles said, side-stepping a lumpy form he supposed was a branch and holding on Derek’s arm to maintain his balance. Even when he slipped and put his all his weight in it, Derek didn’t flinch.

            “The creek is shitty for swimming.” He snorted. “I’m taking you somewhere else.”

            “And that is…?” Stiles asked. He tilted his head, exposing his neck. Derek liked when he did it, and he probably could see Stiles clearly right now.

            “It’s a surprise.” Derek said in a husky voice. He put a hand to Stiles’ neck and caressed it absent-minded, like he was on auto-pilot. “You are the most curious and impatient person I ever met.”

            “Some of my many endearing traits.” Stiles smirked at him. They started descending a slope so he used the chance to cling to Derek. Any excuse to be closer was a good excuse, as far as Stiles was concerned.

            “They say curiosity killed the cat.” Derek teased, rubbing the tip of his nose on Stiles' temple.

            _And satisfaction brought it back_ , Stiles thought.

            "Please." He snorted. "I'm safe and sound with you near."

            For a moment, they walked in silence again, only the sound of fallen leaves creaking as they were stepped on reaching his ears. When Derek spoke again, he sounded slightly choked, but it was too dark for Stiles to see his expression.

            "Of course." Derek said. His breath ruffled the hair on Stiles' temple. It was past time he buzzed it. "Look, we're here."

            "Here" was too small to be a lake, but definitely bigger and deeper than the creek or any of the numerous streams around the preserve. Better for swimming, for sure, and pitch black, reflecting the stars and the almost round moon.

            Out of the canopy of the trees, it was light enough to see clearly. Derek was looking up to the sky with a relaxed expression, completely at ease in the depths of the forest. When he turned to Stiles, it was with a smile full of white sharp teeth and a look of hunger.

            "Skinny dipping?" He asked, already taking off his expensive, shiny leather jacket. Stiles followed his example, kicking his sneakers out of the way and flushing from head to toe, he was sure.

            He didn't make any attempt at striping seductively. He was Stiles Stilinski after all, infamous for his lack of coordination even when doing things plainly. Plus, he wouldn't waste brain power with that when he had Derek taking his clothes off right in front of him.

            Stiles didn't know if Derek was trying to be seductive, but boy, was he succeeding. The way the moonlight caught his skin and the coarse hair on his chest, made he seem otherworldly. He moved like a predator, graceful and measured, his muscles tensing like he was ready to pounce Stiles any minute now. And the way he was looking at Stiles made him burn, a spark of arousal running from his spine straight to his dick.

            He stopped with only his obviously tented underwear still on, feeling suddenly vulnerable. Derek, avid wearer of tight jeans, was at a disadvantage, fighting to get his pants out of the way without tearing them. Stiles was too turned on to resent how Derek made even that graceful, but not to laugh at him, the knot of anxiety unfurling from his stomach.

            "Race you!" He shouted, taking his underwear off and throwing it at Derek's face. He was running to the pond, laughing, before seeing if he had managed to hit him, and Derek's indignant yelp soon followed.

            It was a short distance, and for all Stiles was flailing and uncoordinated, he knew he was also quick. Yet when he stepped on the round pebbles by the shore, Derek was already on him. He picked Stiles up like he was light as a feather.

            "I win." He whispered on Stiles' ear, his chest warm as a furnace on Stiles' back. Then he threw him in the middle of the pond, some good ten feet away.

            Stiles landed squeaking and emerged breathless. The water was surprisingly warm, and his feet didn't touch the ground. Derek was swimming lazily in his direction, movements calm like he didn't have a care in the word.

            "Romance really is dead." Stiles said, treading water as he watched Derek approaching. When he was close enough, Stiles splashed water on his face and sniggered, swimming away with as much splash as possible.

            He made it to the shallower end of pool, at a point where his feet could reach the bottom, but it was a short-lived escape. Though Derek wasn't as graceful in water as on land, he was still a strong swimmer. On top of that, Stiles wanted to get caught, so when Derek pulled him by the foot, he didn't try to resist. Instead, he turned around and kissed him, hard and open-mouthed.

            Derek kissed him back with a needy whimper, pulled him closer until their chests were touching. Stiles grabbed his hair with one hand, already hard and aching once more, and let his other hand touch the rest of him, trying to learn Derek's body, to commit it to his memory. The way he shivered when Stiles touched his neck, the groan he let out when Stiles rubbed his nipple.

            Slowly, almost trembling, Stiles let his hand travel from Derek's chest to his waist. He was so much warmer than the water surrounding them, so much warmer than Stiles himself, and his skin soft all over, without a hint of a scar or any imperfection. He stopped kissing him, turned his face, and Derek started nipping at his ear, at his neck, his stubble scraping Stiles' skin and making him burn all over.

            A moan escaped him, and then another, louder, when Derek bit harder. Yet he pulled him away, tugging on his hair, light but insistent, to look at his face as he finally touched Derek's cock.

            Derek closed his eyes for a moment, looking overwhelmed with pleasure as Stiles gave the whole length a few gentle tugs and started playing with the head. It was so, so satisfying, knowing Derek was as hard as he was, that he wanted him just as much. Stiles was so aroused he felt light-headed and invincible, confident enough to finally entwine his legs with one of Derek's and bite his neck.

            It was like flipping a switch. At once, Derek grabbed him by the ass, squeezing, and guided Stiles' legs to his waist. Franticly, he started to thrust up into Stiles' palm, and took his own hand to Stiles' dick, _fucking finally_. In the next breath, Stiles was coming, wave after wave of pleasure rushing through his body until he was spent and oversensitive. He would have floated away if Derek wasn't anchoring him, still thrusting into Stiles' slack grip.

            With a happy sigh, Stiles tightened his hand around Derek's cock again and bite his neck softly. Apparently that was enough and Derek came, a groan rumbling deep in his chest. They stayed still, just holding each other, Stiles with his head laid on Derek's shoulder and Derek nuzzling his hair. Stiles could see their spunk disappearing slowly in the water, and felt a rush of embarrassment. He had had sex in the middle of the preserve, where anyone could have seen him.

            _Maybe there will be Google Earth pictures of us doing it_ , he thought, a little crazed. Yet, he was so giddy the happiness easily overrode the shame. He giggled, trying to hide the sound in Derek's shoulder, but it was useless.

            "What are you laughing about?" Derek asked, but he couldn't fool Stiles; there was laughter in his voice too. He started walking to the pebble shore, carrying Stiles easily even after they got out of the water.

            "Nothing." He said, clinging tighter to Derek, who he had just had sex with. "Don't let me fall."

            "I won't." Derek snorted. He made a point of letting Stiles down very delicately when they got to their clothes.

            Neither of them made any move to get dressed, though, so Stiles had high hopes for the rest of the night. He tried to control the urge to hide his dick behind his hands, or the rest of his body, really, and focused on being only admiring of Derek's body, instead of slightly envious too.

            "What changed your mind?" He asked. At Derek's questioning look, he added, "Sex. I thought you wanted to take things slower, since you made no move until now."

            Derek looked embarrassed. He scratched the bridge of his nose, but didn't avoid Stiles' eyes when he answered.

            "I hadn't planned on _this_ ," he pointed at the pond, "turning into sex. It kind of got away from me."

            "Really." Stiles deadpanned. He hoped his tone conveyed his skepticism hard enough. "You thought skinny dipping was going to be a chaste activity."

            "When you put it that way." Derek grinned, taking a step closer and looking at Stiles with burning eyes again. Stiles knew, now − had known from the first time, if he was being honest − what that look meant, so he grinned back, flushing red but so heady it almost made his head spin.

            But suddenly Derek halted, turning his head like he was hearing something. Stiles tried to listen too, but all he could hear was howling in the distance and the breeze passing the trees.

            "I have to go." Derek said. He bent to pick his clothes, and Stiles didn't even have time to appreciate the scene before he had an armful of his own clothes shoved into his hands. "Get dressed."

            "Wha− why?" Stiles asked. There were no words for how much he didn't appreciate being ordered around like this. "Are you seriously running away right after we have sex?"

            "No! Fuck, no, Stiles! That's not it!" Derek said much less harshly, but still getting dressed in a hurry. "I heard Cora calling − on my phone!" He nearly shouted. Then he made a ridiculous show of checking his phone and looked at Stiles with pleading eyes. "Please, get dressed, I have to go."

            Reluctantly, Stiles put on his pants, sneakers and t-shirt, and made a ball with the rest of his clothes. Derek kneeled, and Stiles added super human strength to his mental list of "what the fuck is going on" as he gave Stiles a piggyback ride at full speed through rocky terrain until the Camaro.

            "You can drop me off at the first bus stop." Stiles said when they got to the car. He was past anger and half-way into worried sick by now. He had never seen Derek so nervous, and they had met when he was about to be interrogated on suspicion of murder. It made him vaguely worried for Cora too, even if she had always scowled at him wherever they saw each other around town.

            "I'm taking you home." Derek almost snarled. Then he seemed to get a hold of himself, dragged his hand through his face and whispered, "Sorry. Sorry, I'm just..."

            "It's okay." Stiles lied. If there was one thing he was proficient at by now, was shoving his own insignificant little hurts aside when his people needed it. "Let's get going. I have a ton of homework anyway."

            Derek didn't seem convinced, but he started the car anyway. They made the way in silence, because even the low music was putting Derek on edge. Stiles made his best to not fidget, but it was a losing battle.

            When Derek finally broke the silence, on the last traffic light before Stiles' street, Stiles wished he had stayed quiet instead.

            "Maybe we should take things slower from now on." He said. "Today aside. There is a lot we don't know about each other yet." Derek looked pained as he said it.

            _Are you dumping me?_ , Stiles thought. But he didn't voice the thought, even if it took effort, because he was suddenly terrified Derek would say yes.

            "I don't think there's anything you can say that would change the way I feel, Derek." Stiles whispered, willing his voice not to tremble. "Is it different for you? If I told you the most horrible thing I ever did, would you care less about me?" His eyes were prickling, so he looked at Derek very intently, unblinking. He hated to cry in front of people.

            "No." Derek admitted, quietly. He was breathing through his mouth, like he couldn't take whatever he was smelling. "But it's different. What's the most horrible thing you ever did, Stiles? Got into other people's business? Read someone else's diary? It doesn't compare."

            "I stole the only thing this guy cared about and destroyed it in front of him, actually." He confessed, looking ahead, to the empty road, and started to play with the security belt. The shame he felt was old by now, but it seemed as fresh and new as the first time he truly understood what he had done. "Jackson Whittemore. He went to school with me since kindergarten, and has always been insufferable. I had a crush on his girlfriend, and he broke up with her this really humiliating way. So I convinced her, my best friend and his girlfriend we should get back at him."

            "By stealing his Porsche." Derek stated. Glancing at him from the corner of his eyes, Stiles couldn't say Derek was very impressed with the depths of his evil, but he hadn't told the whole thing yet.

            "And saran-wrapping it." He said. Derek snorted, but Stiles rolled his eyes. "Things got out of control, okay? We decided to scratch messages on the paint saying what a dick he was before, but Scott told some guy from the team what we were doing, and he told someone else, and before we knew it the whole team was there writing how much they all hated him. Did I mention he was the team captain?"

            "Okay, that's pretty bad." Derek conceded, with a voice that said he said it really wasn't that bad. "Did you sign your name or something? Because it seems like you were the only one caught."

            "No, I didn't. And I wasn't the only one. I wish I was." Stiles sighed. "Jackson caught wind of what was going on pretty quickly, so he showed up, and by then the whole school was there. The only one who didn't mess with his car was his friend Danny. He went ballistic when he saw. But then..." Stiles took a deep breath, trying to gather his courage to get to the end. "He started reading what people had wrote. His teammates, his friends. He started crying and raging. People thought it was hilarious, they took videos."

            Derek didn't say anything. Stiles wiped a few tears off his face and went on.

            "He started to punch the windows, so me and Allison had to restrain him before he got seriously hurt. More she than me, really. Scott was going to too, but he had an asthma attack, so Lydia called an ambulance, and they called the cops. Ah, and people got me and Ally on video, so we were both caught." He sobbed. "Her parents send her to finish the semester on France and paid for half the damage. My Dad managed to convince the Whittemores not to press charges, so now I'm paying my part of the debt. And Scott isn't talking to me because he blames me for her leaving, and everyone else but Lydia is ignoring me at school, because they are all back to sucking up to the same person they all mocked."

            "I'm sorry." Derek said. He sounded like he actually meant it, even, like Stiles was the victim of this little tale and deserved some compassion. "I wish you didn't have to go through any of that."

            "What are you even sorry for? I brought this onto myself, Derek!" Stiles said. "Because I can be _that_ cruel and mean and thoughtless, and now I have to know it. And _you_ have to know it, and my Dad, who raised me basically on his own, thinking I'd turn out a decent person." He was full on crying now, and he hated it. He wasn't a messy crier, at least. Small mercies.

            Derek parked and hugged Stiles tight. He looked way more distressed than Stiles himself as he rubbed his back and kissed his damp cheeky. Stiles felt guilty instantly, knowing he had put that expression on his face.

            "We're not at my house yet." He said, closing his eyes and leaning into Derek, enjoying having Derek's arms around him, his warmth. He felt so safe. How could people not see how good Derek was he would never understand.

            "Shut up, Stiles." Derek snarled.

            When they finally disentangled themselves from each other and Derek pulled into traffic again, Stiles dried his tears on the clothes he hadn't put on and asked:

            "Do you still care about me? Or do you think less of me?"

            "I think you are being too hard on yourself." He said. "It was a shitty thing to do, but you meant to hit Jackson's car, not his dignity. It wasn't your fault everybody else hated him too. And yes," Derek went on, cutting Stiles off before he could get started, "I still care about you, and I still think highly of you."

            "At least my point was proven." Stiles said with a trembling smile. "I didn't cry my eyes out for nothing."

            "You really think the worst thing I ever did was humiliating someone? A prank gone wrong?" Derek laughed, but it was a bitter sound. "Don't you know my reputation around here?"

            "If you want me to believe you killed someone, I'm going to need actual proof." Stiles retorted, truly irritated now. He was sick of having this conversation all the time, and with Derek, of all people. "If you killed someone, I want proof that it wasn't self-defence."

            Derek didn't say anything else, but he parked in front of Stiles' house in a particularly aggressive fashion. He frowned at the steering wheel as Stiles unbuckled the safety belt, more sad than angry, if Stiles was reading him right.

            "Is this about you being something?" He asked, bluntly, before he could think better of it. Looked like it was the direct approach, after all.

            "What?" Derek said, suddenly pale as a sheet. Stiles reached to straight out the line between his brows, and Derek let him, but he looked scared now. More scared than the night he had freaked out on him, even.

            "You are really not discrete." Stiles explained. "Hearing things from too far away, smelling me all the time. Carrying my dead weight in a sprint. I don't know what you are, but I know you are something."

            Derek blinked slowly, like he was having trouble processing what he was hearing. When he recovered, at least, he all but confirmed Stiles suspicions.

            "I'll.. I'll talk to you later." He stuttered, taking Stiles' hand from where it had stopped, caressing his jaw, into his. "I really have to go, for real. Cora is waiting. I can't..." He looked at Stiles, into his eyes, and smiled a little, incredulous and a little panicked. "We'll talk about that, okay? I just have... I'll pick you up for school tomorrow."

            "You have to let me go, then." Stiles smiled back. Instead of it, though, Derek gave pulled him into a kiss and lingered, breathing Stiles in without any attempt at being conspicuous.

            They said their goodbyes quickly after that. Stiles was in the bathroom trying to decide what to do about his damp clothes when he hear his Dad opening the front door.

            "Hey!" Stiles greeted, happily, jumping the steps two at a time. "I didn't make dinner yet, you want to grab something before getting your ass kicked at chess?"

            Dad smiled at him tiredly, ignored his damp clothes and blotched eyes and hugged him, hard. Stiles hugged back, a lump already forming on his throat.

            "I just came to take a shower. I have to head back." He let go of Stiles and started going up the stairs. The way he walked, almost dragging his feet, made Stiles' heart ache.

            "Is it another body?" He asked quietly. Dad didn't even try to deny it, just nodded.

            "Ask Lydia if you can sleep over at her house, please. I don't want you alone until this maniac is caught." He said, already entering the bathroom and getting out of Stiles line of sight. "I know you must be sick of each other by now, but I'd feel better."

            For once, Stiles decided to obey at once. He went to his bedroom and took his phone off the charger, texting Lydia at the same time he prepared a bag. But it wasn't the message Dad was hoping for.

            _I know where we can start our project._


	4. Chapter 4

            Laura and Peter had been locked in the office for over an hour. Derek was trying to overhear what they were discussing, and more importantly, if there was crashing or shouting, but the room was on the other side of the house and soundproofed by human standards. He could only hear their whispers, faintly, if he tried very hard. Even that much was difficult with Cora’s cartoons on.

            They were in the living room, sharing the same couch, Cora sprawled over most of it and Derek relegated to the lumpy end. Ariel was about to sell her soul to the sea-witch when Cora gave him a kick and broke his concentration.

            “Relax.” She said. “If he didn’t kill Laura when she wanted to run away, he won’t kill her now. You’re disrupting my viewing experience.”

            She was actually on her phone, texting, like she always did wherever she decided to “watch” anything. The bites on her stomach were almost healed by now, pink lines where they had been gaping wounds mere hours ago. Last night, they had smelled fetid, like what had attacked her was venomous. Laura and Derek had had to hold her down as Peter opened the cuts over and over again, until they started to spill the infected blood, instead of holding it in to consume her from the inside.

            “You’ve watched that movie a hundred times already.” Derek said, scowling at her. In truth, he didn’t mind. They hadn’t hung out in a while. He just wished it was in better circumstances. “And I trust them not to kill each other when there’s already someone else coming at us, it’s just suspicious when they get along.”

            “Something coming at me, you mean.” Cora kicked him again, harder. “You were too busy fooling around with your boy-toy to be of any help.”

            “Don’t call him that!” Derek growled, throwing her feet, until then resting on his thigh, to the floor. She just huffed and adjusted her position with a grimace. “I couldn’t just leave him in the middle of the woods, and I got there in time.”

            In fact, he had been the one to rip the humanoid shape off of Cora, with Peter running in still in his hospital gown right after him and slamming into it from behind. But even surrounded by three werewolves, it had escaped, laughing at them, the rotten smell fading at the edge of the preserve and leaving no clue behind. Derek was left with the sensation that they were lucky it decided to run instead of fight, and not the other way around.

            It had been unsettling, to say the least. They were used to being the scariest creatures roaming the preserve. But the whole situation was not at all related to Stiles. Even if he maybe had some supernatural blood in him, going by his tale about finding the Nemeton as a child, it was obvious he wasn’t the one attacking people around town. He smelled too clean and distinctive for it. Derek would have recognized his scent. With all the coordination of a baby deer learning to walk, he would have been easy prey in the woods. Leaving him behind was out of question.

            But Cora was firm in her decision to hate Stiles. Derek had been trying to be patient with her, though he did so grinding his teeth the whole time. He remembered all too well how he had hated Laura’s first girlfriend. That was just how it went with younger siblings.

            “Whatever. Just drop him here next time.” She growled back, smelling angry and tired, then confused when he started laughing. “What?”

            “You don’t want Stiles around the house before he knows about the supernatural.” Derek could imagine how that would go down well enough: Stiles discovering the books about the occult in the library, Stiles messing with the herbs on the garden, Stiles accidentally summoning a minor demon. Anything to satisfy the bottomless pit of his curiosity. “He’s suspicious enough as it is.”

            “What?!” Cora snarled, sitting up on the couch and facing Derek with clawed fingers and shining blue eyes. She smelled red with fury, but it was almost covered in the bitterness of her sudden fear. “Did you tell him behind our backs?”

            “Of course not! I said he was suspicious, not that I told him!” Derek yelled back. He flashed his own eyes at her, but refrained from letting his claws out. If he gave in to the itch in his nails, in his teeth, they would be tearing at each other in no time. He was stronger than Cora, older, more experienced, with much more kills on his shoulders, and she was still recovering. If he let himself start, he would shred her to pieces.

            “ _How_ can he be suspicious? We look human enough, we behave human enough!” She got up and started pacing, trying to burn out the nervous energy making her border a shift. “If he knows something it’s because you let something slip!”

            “I did not! Calm down!” He got up, hands up to show his human nails, and tried to approach her, but she batted him away. “He’s smart, Cora. He just noticed small things. He doesn’t know we are werewolves, he doesn’t even know werewolves are real.”

            That didn’t calm Cora at all, but finally the lingering pain in her stomach made her sit down again. She chose another couch, though, still smelling electric like a storm.

            “But you are planning to tell him. You have to give him something, if he is suspicious already. I suppose you won’t break up with him?” She asked, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning. Derek was reminded of the ten-year-old she once was, scared out of her mind, soot and tear-tracks on her cheeks. She had had a friend from school over the day of the fire. They had been playing outside and little Erica Reyes had been the one to break the mountain-ash line surrounding the house and keep Cora from going inside until Peter got out and held both of them down.

            “No.” Derek answered, more curtly than he knew he should. He tried to not glare at her. “I like him.”

            Cora glared back, but refrained from saying anything else. She didn’t need to. Derek could smell her sour unease, the unsaid _and what happened the last time you liked someone?_ ringing loud between them.

            “I’m telling Laura.” She said at last. “The Alpha should be the one deciding these matters.”

            Turning to the TV, she made a point of ignoring Derek, concentrating very obviously on the movie, making it clear how much she did not care if Derek stayed or not. When _that_ did not drive Derek off, she tuned into a fishing show, of all things. Derek made himself comfortable on the pillows she had been monopolizing minutes before and stared at the screen, wishing Stiles would text and give him an excuse to escape the tension lingering in the air. He had been silent since their call in the morning saying Lydia was the official driver for today and it was Derek’s day off. He was kind of missing him.

            Derek was close to dozing off on the couch when Laura and Peter finally made an appearance. Their heartbeats were calm and steady as they approached, but Peter smelled almost distressed when he turned the corner and all but collapsed on the couch next to Cora. Laura was suppressing her scent, just her base smell getting through. She sat on the armchair and held a hand up to Cora before she could start.

            “I heard it all.” Laura said, the iciness on her voice betraying her annoyance. “Let’s get this over with. Derek, do you believe your boyfriend to be trustworthy?”

            “Yes.” Derek answered immediately. “He wouldn’t sell me out. He’s very loyal.” _To the people he cares about_ , he thought to himself. But he was one of those people, at least for now. If Stiles ever knew Derek _was_ a murderer, things would change, but Laura didn’t need to know that.

            “Then you can tell him at your discretion. And whatever his reaction, don’t come crying to me if it ends with you arrested on statutory rape charges.” She chided Derek, as she had done every time someone had even thought about Stiles at the pack house. For Cora, she managed a warmer tone, though Derek could see it cost her. “Sis, don’t worry about it. Worst case scenario, he tells everybody and gets committed to Eichen. No one who doesn’t already know will believe him.”

            “And what if he comes after us himself?” Cora spat. Peter held her clawed hand in his burned one, and she gripped it tight, trying to anchor herself on his touch. “If he’s smart enough to figure out werewolves, he might be smart enough to figure out how to hurt us.”

            “He hasn’t figured out werewolves, Cora.” Derek said, rolling his eyes. He reached for the remote and switched the tv off. This conversation was hellish enough without people teaching the best way to make bait on the background. “Just… something.”

            “Somehow I doubt Stiles Stilinski can take the four of us out.” Peter answered, smirking in his usual condescending way. “He’s no hunter. We’d hear him coming from miles away. Plus he seems like a _lovely_ young man.”

            “If he’s so lovely, why is he dating Derek of all people? Everybody in town hates him!” Cora yelled, and pulled her hand off from Peter’s grip when it tightened uncomfortably. She turned to Derek, her decision to ignore him overturned so she could let him see the challenge in her eyes straight away. “Well, it’s true! Why is he dating you if not to get at us?”

            Derek couldn’t have answered if he tried, between the lump in his throat and the ache growing on his chest, suffocating him. He didn’t know what Stiles saw in him, besides the physical attraction and a way to get back at his Dad. But there _was_ something, or Stiles wouldn’t have defended him to the Sheriff, wouldn’t have put his faith on him so blindly.

            He glared at Cora in an attempt to convey how certain he was about this, about Stiles not being Kate, but he didn’t need to. Laura chose that moment to roar warningly, her eyes glowing crimson.

            “I don’t even want to know why the two of you consider Derek’s love life to be a bigger priority than what attacked Cora, but I’m _done_ with this subject. I don’t want to hear anything else about it.” She said, rubbing her temples. “Peter, on to more pressing business.”

            “We have a fairly good idea about what is leaving this trail of half-eaten corpses around town.” Peter started, drumming his unharmed fingers on the arm-rest. He was trying to project a nonchalance air, but his scent was turning distressed again. “The same thing that attacked Cora last night. A wendigo.”

            “There have _never_ been wendigos in Beacon Hills.” Derek protested at once. Cora nodded by Peter’s side, agreeing with him silently, too stunned to say anything out loud. Wendigos were the scum of the supernatural world, cursed by their hunger to wander the earth and hated by their nature wherever they went, yet strong and resilient, a match for an Alpha werewolf or a whole pack. “This has been Hale territory for centuries. They wouldn’t dare.”

            “They dare now.” Laura sighed, closing her eyes and resting her head on the armchair. She inhaled deeply, as if searching for something, but found only the miasma of her pack’s fear. “There has been… a failure in leadership.”

            Derek exchanged a glance with Cora at Laura’s words, their argument forgotten. Peter kept looking at their Alpha, unblinking, fingers still drumming on the couch almost mechanically. The silence was deafening, only the sound of their bodies working filling the room, but as much as he would like to, Derek couldn’t find words to contradict her.

            “What you do is important, Laura.” Cora said after a minute, tentatively. “If you didn’t run things so closely in town, the Argents would have swept us away a long time ago.”

            “Maybe, but the Argents aren’t the only threat. I forgot that.” She grinned at them all, strained, but went on. “But that’s not all, unfortunately. We think this wendigo in particular is trying to do what the Argents couldn’t and drive us from town.”

            “What do you mean?” Derek asked, truly alarmed now. Wendigos weren’t known for thinking past their hunger. If they could do it, they would be dangerous indeed.

            “All these bodies we found… they started being eaten still alive, but the wendigo changed its mind half-way through and decided to slash their throats.” Peter said, crossing his arms over his chest. He smelled worried. “Laura and I have been moving the bodies, but now it is disposing of them in more public places, outside the preserve. The police have found two fresh corpses yesterday alone. It’s clear it wants the police to find the bodies and make a certain connection, don’t you think, Derek?”

            “What are you suggesting?” Derek growled at Peter. He could see where this was going, and he wasn’t happy about it. “I’ve never _eaten_ my kills. It can’t connect me to these murders if it can’t help but take a bite first.”

            “You ate that deer when you were fourteen.” Cora chimed in.

            “Funny, but irrelevant.” Laura snorted. “It _is_ trying to frame you, Derek, and it has succeeded so far. Strauss says Sheriff Stilinski will have a warrant for your apartment by this afternoon.”

            “They won’t find anything.” Derek said, at a loss. “I’d know if someone broke into my apartment. It’ll be another dead-end, like always. Why even bother?”

            “It’s just taunting us, showing it can throw the Hale name in the mud and we can’t stop it.” Peter said. He was picking at his burns with clawed fingers. The pain was helping ground him, the smell of his fear dissipating slowly. “Of course, it’s using an opening that was already there, waiting to be exploited.”

            “Derek,” Laura called, claiming his attention with the sudden authority in her voice. “I’ve let you do things your way because I know how much it hurts you having to act in Peter’s role, but what we accomplished was smearing your reputation and letting rogues and omegas walk all over us. We can’t afford that anymore. From now on, if anything supernatural crosses our borders without permission, we kill it on sight. No more giving the benefit of the doubt, making tests, letting them run away. Understand?”

            Derek just blinked at her, uncomprehending. It was impossible to process her words. He couldn’t.

            “The Hale pack has been giving sanctuary for the supernatural for centuries, Laura.” He said at last, after the silence became thick with the blood rushing to his ears. He could barely hear her heartbeat, or Peter’s, or Cora’s. “It’s why we funded this fucking town. We can’t just stop!”

            “We can and we will.” Laura retorted, finality spilling from her voice. Her eyes were crimson again. “It’s not like we are in position to protect anyone. We have already failed.”

            “Derek, I’ve looked into this” Peter interrupted. He was holding Cora’s hand again, and she was crying quietly, drying her tears as soon as they fell. “All the victims so far have showed inconsistencies at the autopsy table. They were supernatural people. Only creatures that wouldn’t have put up too much of a fight, but with enough power to strengthen it. Untrained ravens, an incubus too young to feed, the odd werecoyote.”

            “It’s clearly sending a message.” Laura added, crossing her arms. “If we are seen as too weak to defend this town, and you get arrested on top of it, omegas, ambitious packs, they’ll all go for our throats. The Nemeton and the town will be defenseless. Our priority is to neutralize this wendigo any way we can before it grows too strong to put down. _Then_ we can go back to giving shelter to those who need it.”

            Derek dropped his head and stared at the center table. He could understand Laura’s reasoning, but his guns were itching. His claws were digging into his tights, leaving tiny holes and blood smears in his jeans.

            “I’m going for a walk.” Derek said, getting up and already reaching for his cigarettes. Before he took a single step, though, Laura was on him, a hand on his chest to stop his progress. Her petite body belittled her strength, but when she out it to use, Derek was reminded why she was the Alpha.

            “I hope you realize that’s not an argument, Derek.” She said. Cora was still sniffling besides Peter, but their uncle was watching them closely, poised to intervene if a fight broke out, though in favor of whom was impossible to know. “We are doing things my way, from now on.”

            “You mean Peter’s way.” Derek growled, looking straight into Laura’s eyes in challenge. She merely arched an eyebrow and threw him back into the couch with a flick of her wrist.

            “Same thing, really.” Laura said, in a bored tone.

            When he tried to go away this time, she let him.

 

 

 

            What Derek _wanted_ to do with his afternoon was raid Beacon Hills for this fucking wendigo, tear its belly open and spread its guts on every entrance of the town. Better yet, he wanted to take Stiles to the movies, kiss him in the dark theater and have sex with him again, to hell with his guilt.

             What he did was clean his apartment in preparation for Sheriff Stilinski showing up with a warrant.

            _Bad enough my secret father-in-law thinks I’m a serial killer_ , he thought, _can’t be a serial killer and a slob_.

            Cora was helping, in part to make up for her bratty comments about his relationship, in part to escape Peter and Laura’s scheming. She had followed him to the Camaro still crying, smelling so miserable that Derek had lifted the ban on his pack going to his apartment for the day. Now she was sniffing as she finished dusting some shelves full of books. She had taken everything down and organized everything by language, then alphabetically, same as she had done on the TV rack with his movies. Derek was hoping to steer her away from the kitchen cabinet.

            “It might not be so bad.” She whispered after they had cleaned together for a while. “Sure, we are throwing away Mom’s legacy, but how many people have actually been looking for help all those years you’ve been acting as enforcer?”

            “Two out of seventy-five.” He answered. One had been Mrs. Reed, an elderly omega werewolf kicked out of her pack after her Alpha son had been killed. The other one had been Mr. Rodriguez, the nahual who lived in Stiles’ street and always gave Derek _alegrías_ for his birthday, saying he needed more of those. The other ones, all seventy-three of them, he had forgotten the names as soon as they tried to strike him or someone else on Hale territory.

            “And it’s only temporary. As soon as we deal with it, we’ll go back to the way things are supposed to be, right?” Cora nodded to herself, trying to smile at Derek, but her lips were trembling a little.

            “Cora, wendigos are… difficult to deal with. They can stay hidden in plain sight.” Derek said, mopping the floor with more vigor than necessary. He had already broken a broom, so he made an effort to not put all his strength on the motion. “It may take longer than we’d like for this to be over. Plus, Laura cares about what people think. She doesn’t like being associated with someone like me, and it’s not making you Miss Popular, exactly.”

            Cora just shrugged. She sat on the sofa and started going over his movie collection again, taking things off the rack and putting them back by color.

            “I don’t care what mundanes think. I have Brett and Lori, and they like you.” She turned to him with a sharp look. “But maybe _you_ should care more about your reputation, since you want to mingle with humans so badly.”

            “Not this again, Cora!” Derek snapped. The mop in his hand splintered in two where he was holding it, and he threw the piece he had in his hand to the floor with a curse.

            “I’m sorry about this morning, Derek, okay? I’m sure your boyfriend is not a psycho. I _know_ I got scared over nothing. But…” She trailed off, sighing. Then she got up and walked to him, hand extended, and started plucking splinters out when he gave his hand to her. “Isn’t he going to leave you anyway when you tell him?”

            “Not everyone is like Paige, Cora. His first impression of werewolves won’t be a snarling Alpha attacking him and Mom jumping in to chase him off fully transformed.”

            “And then shifting back, tits out in the poor girl’s face.” Cora grinned. For all Peter spent most of his time either harassing Laura or annoying Derek, sometimes it shone through how much time he spent filling Cora’s head with garbage.

            “Tits out in the poor girl’s face.” Derek confirmed, rolling his eyes, but grinning too. Thinking about Paige didn’t hurt anymore, and hadn’t for a long time, but making jokes about this train wreck was still new. Derek smiled down at Cora. “I’ll sit him down and talk things out.”

            “I hope you are right, Derek, for real.” Cora smiled back, pulling the last bit of wood from his skin. “You deserve to be happy. Pick this up and I’ll take the trash outside and grab some donuts for us from that bakery around the corner, alright?”

            They finished cleaning quickly after that. Derek put “broom” and “mop” on his shopping list and started reading some Atwood while he waited for Cora to come back. He was almost relaxed, fingers hovering over the call button on Stiles’ number, wandering if he was already at work, when he heard Cora’s angry steps going towards the elevator. She wasn’t alone as she pressed the “down” button seven times. There were three other heartbeats close to her.

            When she opened the sliding door with a pull so strong it almost came out of the hinges, Sheriff Stilinski, Deputy Graeme and Deputy Haigh gave her curious looks, but soon enough they were all focused on Derek. The Sheriff in particular smelled determined, the underline of exhaustion that permeated his scent almost covered.

            “Sheriff, officers. What brings you here?” Derek asked, as pleasantly as he dared. He had always liked and respected Noah Stilinski on account on how he had handled the arson case, but any sympathies the Sheriff had had for him had disappeared years ago. Now he had difficulty even being civil to Derek.

            _If he was a different kind of man_ , Derek thought, _he’d have tried to kill me already._

            “Mr. Hale.” The Sheriff greeted, curt, before pulling the papers from his pocket and handling them over to Derek. “We have warrants for your apartment and car.”

            Derek invited them in and read the warrants thoroughly before letting them get started. They could search the apartment and the Camaro, it read, and were looking for evidence of the presence or keeping of a wild animal. Derek had no doubt they would take the chance to look through all his stuff, even though the only pet Derek had ever had had been a fish Laura had given him when he’d first moved in.

            As they started, Derek settled down on the sofa with a sign and lit a cigarette. Thankfully it was Deputy Graeme and not the Sheriff or Deputy Haigh searching his bedroom. She smelled calmer, less like she hated Derek and more professional, and probably wouldn’t stink the place up too badly.

            “Can you take me to your car, Mr. Hale?” Sheriff Stilinski asked, frowning down at him. He had looked around the living room, lingering longer than Derek was comfortable with on the Star Wars set Stiles had left with him, before deciding there was nothing to find there. Derek pulled the keys from his pocket, but Cora took them from his hand before he could protest.

            “I’ll take you.” She said. Unlike Derek, who had resigned himself to these strangers trampling around his territory with a scowl and a smoke, Cora had been fuming, following each of them at their heels in turns. She was back to smelling stormy as she led the Sheriff to the garage.

            Derek concentrated on the acrid smell of the smoke as he exhaled, and on Cora’s accelerated heartbeat and angry stomping. If he did it, he could almost ignore the deep fury brewing in his chest at the invasion in his home. Yet he couldn’t stop himself from hearing Deputy Graeme’s gasp when she found his drawer of sex toys, no more than he could keep from smelling her embarrassment from where he was. He heard Deputy Haigh opening a bag in the kitchen, and caught a whiff of salted peanuts in the air before hearing chewing.

            “We are almost done, Mr. Hale.” Deputy Graeme said, coming down the spiral staircase. She smelled embarrassed still, but her face betrayed nothing. Deputy Haigh left the kitchen and went to the bathroom, probably to piss around the toilet or use his bath salts.

            After a few groans even Deputy Graeme must have heard, Haigh entered the living room smelling like disgust, sludge and cleaning supplies. He had a Ziploc bag filled with the hair from Derek’s drain. That was all they had to show after their search. Derek almost wanted to laugh, but he just put his cigarette out on the ashtray on the center table and crossed his arms and ankles. He could hear Cora and the Sheriff taking the elevator back, so it was almost over now.

            Derek’s tentative amusement evaporated when Cora pulled the door open again, though. He could smell Stiles’ pretty scent, baby powder and forest from where he was sitting. His face was a blank mask as Sheriff Stilinski showed him the sock, a purple and green monstrosity with the Joker’s sinister face on it.

            Deputy Graeme cursed under her breath, so quietly Derek knew only he and Cora would have heard. Deputy Haigh took a couple of steps in his direction, offering the Ziploc bag, but Sheriff Stilinski held a palm up without even sparing him a look.

            “You don’t strike me as a fan of pop culture. More of a… classic literature kind of guy. Whose sock is this?” He asked Derek, the effort not to grit his teeth evident in the way his voice was straining. He smelled so furious Derek had to hold his breath for a moment, before he started suffocating in the scent of burning rage.

            “That is not evidence of the presence or keeping of animals, Sheriff.” Derek answered, as firm as he could. He felt cornered, in truth, much more than any other time the Sheriff had interrogated him. His fangs were itching to drop. Cora’s worry, reaching him from where she had stopped near the door, was not helping matters. “I’ll have to ask you to put it back where you found it.”

            “How did you get this?” Sheriff Stilinski yelled in his face, taking a step closer. His face was so read, his heartbeat so loud, Derek was afraid he would have a heart attack right there. Yet, a part of him wanted to growl at him, put this man who dared to come into _his_ territory and threaten _him_ in his place.

            But at the end of the day this was Stiles’ father. And when things were inverted, and Derek, Laura and Cora were the victims, he had been kind, had protected them to the best of his ability.

            Derek stayed silent.

            “What. Did you do. To Stiles?” The Sheriff hissed in his face, leaning forward to look Derek in the eye. They stared at each other, silent and unblinking. Derek’s eyes were burning with the smell of fury in the air, but the Sheriff was the first to break. “Answer me, or I swear to God. I haven’t been able to make anything stick to you yet, but if you ever hurt my son, your life in Beacon Hills will become a living hell, I promise you.”

            “He didn’t do anything to your stupid son!” Cora screamed from the apartment entrance. Her hands were curled into fists, her knuckles white. Derek could smell her blood cutting into the oppressive mix of emotions floating around the room. “Does he have the monopoly in stupid socks or something? This could be anyone’s!”

            “But it isn’t, is it?” Sheriff Stilinski replied, eyes narrowing. He turned around and walked to the TV rack, pulled the Star Wars set and opened the box. Inside the lid, there was a message in big block letters. Derek could read them even from the couch.

 

**Happy Birthday, Stiles!**

**We’ll see them together soon.**

**Love, Dad.**

 

            “Stiles lent me those.” Derek finally lied. The Sheriff was still angry, he could smell it, but actually getting some answer for a change was throwing him off a little. It was like he didn’t know if he wanted more to shot Derek or to keep him talking. “We talk sometimes.”

            “You _talk_.” The Sheriff spat. He was an incandescent red by now, much the way Stiles got when he was embarrassed. Derek could appreciate how much more attractive that looked on the son than the father. “And how exactly did ‘talking’ turned into ‘leaving pieces of clothes on your car’?”

            “We also hang out.” Derek said. His heartbeat was wild and off-beat, betraying his nervousness and trying to send him into a shift, but only Cora could hear it. He tried to keep a neutral expression and make Cora follow his lead before she jumped someone’s throat, but it was difficult with the way the three police officers were looking at him. “He took his shoes off in my car. That’s all.”

            Sheriff Stilinski shook his head, like he wanted to call Derek the filthy liar he was, but Deputy Graeme walked up to him, held his elbow and started whispering in his ear.

            “Noah, this is useless. We have to get Stiles to talk.” Her voice was so low and soft that the Sheriff had to lean into her space to hear her clearly. To Derek, she sounded like she was shouting.

            The Sheriff looked at him again. His anger had abated somewhat, but now he was reeking with dark contempt. Derek held his gaze, glaring back, trying to hide how small he was feeling.

            “We are done. For now. Thank you for your collaboration.” He said, turned on his heels and left, both officers following him, Deputy Graeme with a dirty look at Derek and Deputy Haigh with a cloud of shock clinging to him. As soon as they stepped outside, Cora closed the door violently behind them and Derek let himself fall face first in the couch, blocking the unpleasant smells gladly.

            “Open the windows, please, before we suffocate in here.” He barked into the cushions. Cora obeyed at once, then lay on top of him and started rubbing her cheek on his hair, trying to scent mark him as best as she could.

            “I hate these people!” She sobbed in his ear. “They treated you like a criminal, and for what? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

            _I am a criminal_ , Derek thought. _And things are just starting to go downhill_.

            “Stiles is his family. Would you have acted any different?” He mumbled. He just wanted this day to end already. When he was asleep he didn’t need to worry about being labeled a rapist, besides a killer. But instead he started to get up with Cora still on his back. “Let’s go, we’ll have to search more thoroughly today.”

            Cora grumbled, but acquiesced quickly. When Derek was up again, she let go of him and landed gracefully.

            “Let’s go grab a donut first, okay? I was interrupted before.” She put her hair on a ponytail and started running for the door. She had the keys to the Camaro with her, and Derek knew she would try to bargain to drive it when they got to the garage.

            Snorting, he followed behind her at a more leisure pace, taking the time to check his phone. He was happy to see Stiles had broken his silence and sent a text, but less happy about the content, or about the missed call.

            _Can you please please please come pick me up from work right now?_

It had been sent two hours ago.

 

 

 

            After a fruitless search with Cora that took the rest of the day, Derek ended up at the same tree he had spied the Stilinskis from the first time he met Stiles in daylight, doing the same thing he had done then.

            From where he was hidden between bark and pine needles, he could hear Stiles failing to hold his sobs in, and each hiccupped breath made his own chest ache.

            “What am I going to do with you, Stiles?” The Sheriff was crying too, by the sound of it. “Will I have to bury you? Is that what you want?”

            “I want you to trust me!” Stiles retorted, nearly shouting. “I know I’ve messed up with this whole Jackson thing, but I _know_ I’m right about this, okay? Derek is a good person, he wouldn’t feed people to wild animals!”

            “Stiles, you barely know him!” The Sheriff shouted back. “Do you understand what is happening here? For ten years, nearly every time he as much as said good morning to someone in this town, this person was found dead. Common people, Stiles, harmless people. Some younger than you. He’s never even tried to defend himself when we interrogated him, just silence.”

            “Well, those murders are different, Dad−”

            “Are you even listening to yourself?! Stiles, stop−”

            “It’s true! Lydia and I have been investigating, alright? Until last month, wherever Derek was suspected of killing someone, the victims were from out of town, right? And you couldn’t even ID them most of the time. But all these bodies found half-eaten are of people born here, or who have been living here forever.”

            The Sheriff was stunned into silence, and so was Derek. Stiles had smelled sincere when he had said he didn’t believe Derek to be a killer; his heartbeat, so dear and familiar by now, had remained steady and sure.

            _But he knows something is going on and is looking into it_ , Derek thought, guilty weighting his shoulders down. He clawed at his thighs, let the pain anchor him, drew breaths as deep as his lungs allowed.

            Inside the house, Sheriff Stilinski recovered much more quickly.

            “Even if you are right and Hale is innocent of these murders, he’s still guilty of the others, more likely than not. You can’t just ignore this, son.” The Sheriff signed. His steps echoed on the wood floor until Derek’s ears. “I know all this has been hard on you, Stiles. That Lydia is your only friend right now, and you are feeling lonely. But the solution is not dating Derek Hale, of all people.”

            “That’s not why, Dad.” Stiles insisted. Derek was glad to hear only a sniff or two in his voice. “I care about him. If you just gave him a chance−”

            “Stiles, don’t ask me this.” The Sheriff’s tone hardened again. “You spend so much time controlling what I eat, son, but _this_ is what will give me a heart attack. Promise me you won’t see him again, son.” He demanded.

            Derek could hear clothes rustling and Stiles’ breathing getting shallower, like he was pressing his nose against something. They were probably hugging, making up as they decided Derek was not worth it together.

            “Sorry, Dad, but no.” Stiles voice pierced the night. Derek only realized how tense he was when his muscles relaxed. Relief pooled in the pit of his stomach at Stiles’ words, and his legs grew weak. Derek let himself sit down into the soft earth with a sigh.

            “This is not a discussion, Stiles!” The Sheriff said. He must have pulled away from the hug, judging by more rustling and Stiles’ clear breathing. “I’m the parent, you’re the kid, remember?”

            “Look, Dad, we’re talking in circles here. No one is changing their minds, so let’s go back to this later.” Stiles retorted, past tears and heading directly into nervousness. “I have something much more important I need to tell you.”

            “Dear Lord.” The Sheriff whispered. Derek silently agreed, but only because he knew Stiles didn’t have supernatural problems besides Derek himself knocking on his door.

            “I quit my job today.” Stiles said. “Ah−ah−ah! Let me explain before you kill me, okay?”

            “Please, go ahead and try to make sense of this mess.” Sheriff Stilinski sighed. His usual exhausted tone was beginning to show through his anger.

            “Okay, so my boss and his whole family hang around during my shifts. Every. Single. One of them, since day one. And they’re all super nice to me, and let me stay in the register instead of doing the heavy lifting, and they gave free stuff from the shop all the time, since apparently I’m a growing boy.” Stiles huffed. Derek could _see_ him in his mind, flailing his arms around.

            “That’s where you got that garbage, then.” The Sheriff said, unimpressed.

            “Hey, that garbage is good for you! But anyway, today they wanted me to get a hose from the basement, out of nowhere. Their basic product is fresh vegetables! What do they even need a basement for?!” Stiles yelled. There was a sound of something being hit and colliding with wood. “Oops, good thing this is plastic. So I was already suspicious, but I decided to earn my salary for once and went down the stairs, only I ended up in the most sinister basement known to man. There was nothing but empty shelves down there, and the hose, and a metal door on the wall opposite to the stairs.”

            “Please, tell me you didn’t open that door.” Sheriff Stilinski begged.

            “It was locked.” Stiles replied. “But I didn’t get to snoop around because the door up the stairs closed, and there was no switch anywhere. I stayed in the dark for like, ten minutes.”

            “You haven’t been afraid of the dark since you were three, Stiles.”

            “But it was so strange, Dad. It was like the dark was malicious, I can’t explain it.” Stiles said, quietly, like a shiver was running the length of his spine. Derek could hear the fear in his voice clearly, and it was wrong, so foreign that for a moment he had trouble identifying the emotion. “So I called you, and I called Derek, but neither of you picked up. I almost called the landline on the store, but in the end, I just found the stairs with the light from my phone. When I got to the door it was stuck, but it opened when I shoved. I just walked up to my boss, quit and caught the bus home.”

            “That’s it?” The Sheriff asked. The incredulity in his tone was so strong Derek could almost taste how sandy it was from his place behind the house.

            “Well… My boss tried to keep me there at first, so I told him my scary boyfriend was already on his way to pick me up. And I might, er… I might have emphasized this boyfriend had been suspected of murder a couple of times, and was very strong and scowly.”

            “So what you are saying,” The Sheriff began “is that you quit the job where people treated you nicely and that paid well above the minimum wage because a draft closed the door and you got scared of the dark?”

            “When you put it like that, it sounds a bit silly. Maybe it’s one of those things where you had to be there to see how funny it was? Except in this case it was creepy and very, very frightening.” Stiles said, voice growing squeakier with every word.

            “Son, I swear I’m trying to understand you, but you’re not making it easy on me.” Sheriff Stilinski sighed. “How about I drive you there tomorrow morning and you apologize and see if Mr. Walcott will take you back?”

            “How about no, Dad? There’s no way I’m going back there!” Stiles retorted, much firmer than just a minute before. “These people are evil, and not in ‘I don’t pay my taxes’ way, a real, evil-evil way! While you’re here chewing me about Derek, they are out there doing fuck knows what in their basement!”

            “You know what? You’ve been here talking my ear off, even crying, about Derek Hale for four hours straight, and your best argument to defend him was that he might not have killed those people, just some other people. And now you want to convince me Mr. Walcott, who has been extremely kind to accept you as his employee after all the things you pulled, is the devil.” The Sheriff said. He sounded tired past anger, past any emotion but despair. “You have it backwards, Stiles, but do as you will. Find another job if you can, so you can see how good you had it. As long as you keep up with your side of the deal and I don’t have to send you to juvie.”

            They stayed in silence after that. There was glass clinking in the background, as well as liquid being poured. It was all white noise for Derek. He was focusing on Stiles’ shaky breaths, his agitated heartbeat, the rush of blood in his veins. Something about him sounded distressed.

            “Any chance ‘do as you will’ applies to my love life, too?” He joked at last, but it fell flat. He sounded like he legitimately wanted to know.

            “No, kiddo. But you are right about us talking in circles. We’ll come back to this tomorrow, okay?” The Sheriff sipped something and then went on. “Go to sleep. You have school in a few hours.”

            Derek heard as Stiles stumped his way upstairs, and as he closed his bedroom door and opened his window. It was only two more days until the moon was full again, so when he put leaned outside, the moonlight illuminated his face completely, undressing him to Derek’s eyes.

            “I don’t know how far this super hearing thing works, but Derek, if you can hear me, would you come here?” Stiles whispered. He was talking to the night, Derek supposed, but his feet where taking him to the roof before he made a conscious decision to move.

            “Hey.” He greeted, smiling. Stiles smiled back, smelling surprised but glad. He took a few steps away, giving Derek space to enter throw the window more easily.

            “Are you really fast and have really awesome hearing, or were you nearby?” Stiles teased, hugging Derek. He hugged Stiles back, nuzzling his temple. Already his infernal day was more bearable.

            “I was behind the house, in the woods.” He said, knots of tension unfurling from his muscles faster the more he held Stiles. “I saw your message too late, so I wanted to check on you.”

            “Have you heard everything?” Stiles asked, putting some distance between them, without letting go. He looked at Derek’s face intently, even petted his cheek lightly, waiting for an answer and ready to judge how true it was.

            “About your job, yes, and a little about me.” Derek inhaled deeply. Stiles’ eyes were a little red still, and he smelled like salt. “I’m sorry, your Dad found some of your stuff in my apartment. I didn’t confirm anything, but he was quick to put two and two together.”

            “He’s a good detective.” Stiles said, voice full of pride and fondness despite supposedly having spent the last four hours fighting with his father.

            “Runs in the family.” Derek smiled, and then kissed the tip of Stiles’ nose. “Do you want to have that talk now? About… about what I am?”

            When Laura had asked if he trusted Stiles, Derek knew she was really asking if Derek would trust Stiles with the lives of all of them, and with their secrets. And he did. If the worst happened and Stiles rejected him, his idea of revenge was writing obscenities in cars. More than that, Stiles was a better person than he gave himself credit for, and Derek couldn’t imagine him attacking someone without provocation.

            Yet, the reality of telling him everything made Derek break into a cold sweat.

            _This could be the last time I touch you_ , Derek thought, and kissed Stiles deeply on the mouth, and then on the cheek and the ear. He made a point of nuzzling him hard while Stiles made up his mind and played with his hair.

            “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I can’t take any more talking today.” Stiles decided. He rested his head on Derek’s shoulder, and just let his body loose, barely clinging to Derek, letting him support all his weight.

            “Lazy-ass.” Derek snorted. “I’m pretty beat myself, to tell the truth.” He confessed.

            “I could tell. You have bags under your eyes.” Stiles said, lifting a hand slowly to touch said bags with just the tips of his fingers. “How is Cora?”

            “She’s alright now, but it was… close.” Derek said, a little choked up. He picked Stiles up in a bridal-carry and laid him down on his bed. Stiles patted the spot next to him, but Derek didn’t even need an invitation. Stiles’ bed was saturated with his scent, and had Stiles in it besides. It smelled like heaven to Derek.

            Downstairs, he could still hear the Sheriff, still drinking and going through papers. Next to him, the sound of Stiles’ heartbeat, now calm and steady, was lulling Derek asleep. He blinked himself awake with some effort.

            “Do you want me to go?” They had slept together, at Derek’s apartment, but there were no parental figures nearby.

            But Stiles only shook his head, eyes already closed.

            “You will hear if Dad comes here, won’t you?” He asked, but didn’t actually wait for an answer. “And if he catches us, well, he already knows.”

            “I’ll try to go before he awakes.” Derek promised. Stiles nodded, kicked his shoes away and hugged him closer. Derek followed his example, disentangling himself from Stiles to take off his jeans and leather jacket, and rushing back to bed and to Stiles’ soft breaths.

            The day was catching up to him, his head pounding with worries and unshed tears, but he felt almost satisfied as he curled protectively around Stiles. He was sleep before he could wonder about it.


	5. Chapter 5

            Like the day before, they made a point of waiting for lunch to abscond from school. Lydia insisted on attending at least her AP Math class, and that meant Stiles had to suffer Econ and AP English. Though Ms. Ramsey’s class had become a lot more bearable since he could hear Derek talking about his beloved classics in his head, Coach was as insane as ever, and had taken to calling on Stiles to answer questions even when he hadn’t raised his hand.

            “I swear, he is worse than everyone else combined. At least they just ignore me or try to throw my stuff in the trash.” Stiles complained to Lydia as she parked her car in the western entrance to the preserve. It was technically closed for visitors, with rumors of mountain lions and bears floating around, but they jumped the warning sign and started walking.

            “It’s obvious he misses you being on the team and is trying to make up for your absence in class.” Lydia grinned. She had been in a much better mood since yesterday, after they had cut class to go snooping at the station and whatever she had planned had worked. She had come back to Stiles, who had stayed in the car biting his nails and looking over his shoulder, waiting for Dad or one of his Deputies to show up, with a pile of copies almost as tall as her.

            “Yeah, no one can warm a bench as well as me.” Stiles snorted. “Too bad my ‘anti-social behavior’ can’t be tolerated.”

            “Well, look at the bright side: if Principal Thomas hadn’t kicked you off the team, they might have killed you already.” She chirped, stepping over a log and following the trail Stiles choose.

            “Nah, Jackson won’t give the order until I’m done paying him back.” Stiles retorted, waving her off. If pressed, he might have had to admit that he missed lacrosse much less than he had thought he would, in all honesty. He had joined because Scott wanted to, and because sports helped with his concentration as much as his Adderall did. But now he didn’t have his old best friend to please and other things were occupying his mind, so lacrosse became a secondary issue.

            “You’re awfully happy today.” Stiles felt obliged to point out, looking at her from over his shoulder. “You’ve seemed happy since we went to the station, actually.”

            “I _am_ happy. Aren’t you? Things are looking up for us.” Lydia said, jogging a little until they were side by side. “Your boyfriend might not be a serial killer, you quit the job you hated, I have a date with Jordan this Friday. We’re going shopping after this, by the way.”

            Stiles signed, burying his hands on his pockets. He hadn’t told her about his fight with Dad. He wanted to, but even though he had calmed down a lot with Derek’s visit, he felt a tell-tale tightness in his chest anytime he thought about it. And even if Dad had been called away before they could start fighting this morning, he wasn’t looking forward to how the evening would go.

            At least Dad hadn’t seen Derek in his bed, but only because Derek had jumped up suddenly, grabbed his clothes from the chair and literally leaped out of the window at superhuman speed. Stiles had been left drowsy and confused until Dad had barged into his bedroom to awake him officially.

            “Jordan as in Jordan Parrish?” He asked, going down a slope and stopping to wait for Lydia. He should really try to remember his legs were longer than hers. “Is that how you got all those things yesterday? By seducing Parrish?” Stiles grinned at her when she caught up to him.

            “Why are you surprised? Those files were confidential, you thought I’d just walk in and they’d let me grab what I wanted?” Lydia huffed. When Stiles started to get ahead of her without noticing again, she grabbed his arm to slow him down. “I’m not the Sheriff’s son, last time I checked.”

            Stiles grinned at her, but had the good sense to not deny he got away with a lot at the Station.

          “Still, Parrish is just so… correct. He doesn’t seem like the type to hand over classified info for a date, even a date with _you_.” In fact, Stiles had seen Parrish turn down advances from women offering a lot more for much less, like getting out of tickets, with his own two eyes. He _really_ was a goody-goody. “Just try not to eat the man alive, okay?”

           “You flatter me.” Lydia said. “What actually convinced him was my genuine and heart-felt worry about your dating choices. He thinks you don’t know the details about the cases and is counting on me to steer you right. Of course, he’ll have to comfort me when I report I failed on our date, and by then he’ll forget all about you.” She winked at him, her smile making her dimples more pronounced.

            “I didn’t know he cared.” Stiles blinked, genuinely surprised. “He can never tolerate me for very long.”

        “You grow on people.” She said, squeezing his arm lightly. “Like a very persistent and unkillable fungus. Before we know it, we care about you against our better judgment.”

          “Wow. That was… I don’t know if I should feel insulted or pleased.” Stiles snorted. The accuracy in Lydia’s statement was amazing, though. In Stiles experience, people were always slightly shocked when they realized Stiles had annoyed them into liking him. Derek had been the exception to the rule so far.

          “Be pleased. I’d never agree to cut class to explore _nature_ for just anyone.” Lydia threw her hair over her shoulder in a practiced motion, stomping on some leaves to show her discontentment more clearly. “Are you even going to tell me what we’re looking for?”

           “I don’t really know.” Stiles said, glancing around him. He had walked this part of the preserve a hundred times, with Dad, with Scott, and even alone when he was feeling down, but everything seemed strange, somehow. Like it had tilted just a few degrees. “Derek just said I shouldn’t come here.”

            Lydia rolled her eyes and stomped even harder.

            “I don’t understand you. You swear you trust this guy, then you decide to do the opposite of what he told you to do.” She groaned when they started going uphill. Her boots were old and worm-out, but still had square heels higher than indicated for a stroll on the woods.

           “It’s different, okay? He sounded like he didn’t want me knowing this.” Derek had sounded… wary wasn’t the right word, really. More like furious, with an anger seething  under his skin. Derek wasn’t really an angry person, though he was often frowning and terrifying people with his presence alone. So when he really got angry, it was bound to grab Stiles’ attention.

            “And how is this any different from his other secrets? You know, the ones he’s keeping from you too.” Lydia asked, arching a very well-done and sarcastic eyebrow.

            Stiles just shrugged. When he had confronted Derek and he had all but confirmed not being human, Stiles had thought they would avoid the topic forever. When he had gone to sleep at Lydia’s fancy guest bedroom that night, sleep eluded him, and he dreamed up various scenarios where Derek tried to break things between them up again, ranging from screaming arguments to complete evasion.

            He had been too exhausted by the fight with Dad last night to be surprised Derek chose to breach the topic at all. Stiles had just been glad to see his beautiful face and to hug him and cling to him for dear life.

         “Because he did confess to something.” He finally answered Lydia. At her suddenly frightened expression, he went ahead. “Not about murdering people, about… something else. An unrelated something. Except I don’t know how unrelated it is after all. And he was going to tell me more when I wasn’t dead on my feet, but I felt like he wasn’t going to tell me about whatever is happening at the preserve.”

          “So you’re saying,” Lydia started, a confused pout on her lips. It was such an unusual expression on her that Stiles had to smile. “that you think whatever is in the preserve that Derek doesn’t want you to know about is more important than whether Derek is killing people or not? Though the two may be related?”

           “I… think so?” Stiles scratched his head. “Look, if I had some paper on me I’d explain it better. Or maybe a crime board! Always wanted one of those.” He smiled dreamily until Lydia pinched his arm. “Ouch! You should seriously consider cutting your nails a bit. Listen, Lydia,” He sighed, turning serious. “In light of recent events… recent information disclosure… would you like, date a vampire? Would someone being a creature of the night be a deal-breaker for you?”

            Lydia stopped short and turned to him, looking at him with her mouth slightly open and shaking her head slowly. It was like her brain couldn’t process the sound waves her ears were capturing. Stiles stopped a few steps ahead and looked back.

            _I broke her_ , Stiles thought, a bit hysterical. _I didn’t even know it was possible, but I broke her_.

          “When we get back you’re buying me the biggest ice-cream that exists in this town, Stiles Stilinski.” She said at last after a full minute of silently contemplating him, looking as if she was clinging to her sanity with every uttered word. “We are going shopping. We’ll both get our nails done, and I won’t hear a single complaint from you. Clear?”

            “Crystal.” He squeaked. She ushered ahead, and he followed, mindful of letting her lead the way until she calmed down somewhat.

            _I hope Derek is not a vampire_ , Stiles thought, watching Lydia’s back, the way her wavy hair swan left to right as she walked. _Or any other form of the un-dead_.

           They walked for another half-hour in silence, though Stiles caught up to Lydia and offered her his arm (which she took) after only five minutes. Without talking, however, Stiles couldn’t help but pay better attention to the preserve, and once he started, he couldn’t stop.

          Something was _wrong_. Sickeningly, monstrously wrong. The more they walked, the deeper in the woods they went, the more Stiles felt a sense of unease, like the trees around them were desperately trying to warn them off. Lydia clung to his arms, her pointy nails digging slightly on his flesh, but he couldn’t make himself voice a protest. He knew, he _knew_ , staying silent was more important than anything else, more important than breathing, even.

           But Lydia thought otherwise, or she thought the silence was worth breaking for something.

           “Do you hear that?” She asked in a trembling whisper. Stiles made himself stop focusing on the preserve and looked at her. Lydia was pale, her big round eyes brimming with tears. “Do you?”

          “I don’t.” He whispered back. “What is it?” He hugged her shoulders when she only shook her head and closed her eyes hard, trying to shield her from he didn’t even know what. “Lydia, tell me. I will believe you, okay? You can tell me.”

            “Someone… someone screaming.” She said, voice thin. “Over there.”

            Lydia pointed at a spot half-hidden between trees. There was a hole, shallow and shadowed. Stiles took a step closer, but Lydia pulled him back, shaking her head.

            “I’m just going to take a look.” Stiles whispered. “Stay right here, okay?”

            “Stiles, no!” She begged. “Let’s go back.”

           But he let her go. Lydia clung to his arm, then to his outstretched hand as he got farther away, leaving red scratches on his skin. When they finally stopped touching, Stiles felt suddenly cold and weak. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and walked closer to the hole.

            Once upon a time, by means better not thought about, Stiles had acquitted a Boa Constrictor. He had hidden it in his room and fed it mice, as it was only a baby, all the while thinking how cool it would be when it got bigger and could eat a whole elephant. But then Mom had decided it was time to clean his bedroom.

            That clusterfuck had ended with Mom trying to calm him down and him in tears after the snake had tried to get away and been hit by a passing truck. It had been dragged along the scorching asphalt in the middle of the day, under the July sun, and left splotches of red on the street. After the hours it had taken his Mom to get him to stop crying, Stiles had decided to get closer to the remains of the animal, but after so much time under the sun…

            _It’s the smell_ , Stiles realized, emerging from his memories, the bloodied asphalt being replaced before his eyes with the dark stained soil. _They both smell the same, like rotting flesh_.

            “Lydia, I think that was a grave.” He said, eyes still glued to the dark spot. He felt sick, like he was about to thrown up. Something had died in there, or been dumped, and he could only hope it wasn’t a person. “Lydia, let’s−”

            When Stiles looked at her, she wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was looking at something down the same way they had come with terror in her eyes. Both her hands were over her mouth, like she was struggling to keep something in. Her shoulders were trembling violently.

            Stiles ran to her, looking at the same direction she was staring at with dread. The Walcotts, all four of them, stared back with eyes like polished silver.

            “Stiles, it’s good to see you.” Mr. Walcott said pleasantly. He took a step ahead, and Stiles took two steps back automatically, dragging Lydia with him by the shoulders. “We were worried when you left so abruptly yesterday.”

            “I’m alright.” Stiles said, voice trembling. The sons, David and Sean, were circling them, while Mrs. Walcott stood slightly behind her husband, smirking at him in her teal dress. Stiles walked backwards until he could feel bark pressing at his back. “Peachy, really. Sorry about yesterday, I just had to go, I don’t really appreciate being locked in dark basements of doom. Actually we should go right about now, we’re already late for an appointment. Bye, no need to keep in touch.”

            “How did you get out?” David demanded to his left. To think only a few days ago he had offered Stiles a ride was unreal. Lydia shivered in his arms, buried her face in his chest and started to heave. The weight of her, so warm and scared and there because of _him_ , God, it made him furious.

            “Really? You circle around menacingly, do who know what’s in here, and think you can just ask questions and I’ll answer just because?” Stiles shouted. If he weren’t basically holding Lydia up he’d be advancing on David’s stupid face. Or running, maybe, if he wasn’t surrounded. He didn’t even know the answer, he didn’t _know_ how he had gotten out. “Maybe you should just secure your evil lair better next time.”

            “We will, honey, don’t worry.” Mrs. Walcott said, her smile turning almost maternal. She had such a soft, melodious voice, it almost made her seem trustworthy. Stiles wanted to spit on her.

            “Really?” Stiles screamed. He had lost control of the volume of his voice, he was so angry and terrified. There was no one to hear, no one to help, it was futile. Yet he didn’t want to keep quiet because of this people. “You’ll take us to your fucking vegan store instead of leaving us here half-chewed?”

            None of the Walcotts bothered answering him. Instead, they all advanced, eyes shining like beacons and teeth suddenly pointy and razor-sharp, the stuff of nightmares. Stiles kept his eyes open, unblinking, like he could just wish them gone if he looked hard enough. He tried to take another step back, sink his feet on the ground, delay the unavoidable, but only managed to press harder against the tree at his back. His chest started to ache, his breath failing him. Lydia lifted her head from his chest when it started to heave, just in time to see the horror for herself through a curtain of tears.

Then she screamed. It was the most miraculous sound Stiles had ever heard in his life.

         The Walcotts all stopped where they were, suddenly looking human again. Sean, who was directly in Lydia’s line of sight, stumbled backwards and fell to the ground holding his head. The very air in the preserve seemed to get cleaner, and only then Stiles realized how the smell of decaying flesh had intensified when the Walcotts had gotten closer, but it was suddenly gone. Even the light seemed to reach them warmer through the heavy canopy of branches. Lydia’s scream was as cleansing as it was potent. The panic left Stiles in a rush.

         When she stopped, breathless, he recovered before the Walcotts. He dragged Lydia with him and they ran deeper into the green. Stiles knew instinctively they’d get caught, he hadn’t managed to outrun Derek, and Derek was something like this, though not _this_ , he was sure.

            _But if we could only make it there_ , Stiles thought. In his mind, the tree stump he had found in his sleep so long ago was a safe place. Dad would find him and Lydia there, and Derek too, if he called loud enough. Maybe if Lydia could scream again.

            He could hear the Walcotts closing in on them, however. Only through one ear, he noticed detachedly, because the other one was bleeding.

            In the end, Lydia and Stiles fell at the same time. They hit the earth hard and made dust and leaves fly at Mr. Walcott as he approached. Holding hands, Lydia clutched at her chest, trying to regain her breath, and Stiles touched the blood at the side of his face. Lydia opened her mouth to scream again just as Mr. Walcott’s shadow fell on them, and for a moment Stiles thought they could do it, they would make it.

          Mr. Walcott put a hand over Lydia’s mouth and pinched her nose shut. She was out like a light in under a minute, and Stiles was almost happy to follow her when someone hit his head from behind while he scratched and bit at Mr. Walcott hand.

 

 

 

            Because there was no justice in the world, Stiles knew exactly where he was as soon as he opened his eyes.

          The room was completely dark, so much that he blinked once, twice, and finally pocked his eyes delicately to make sure they were open. They were. The floor he was laying on was rough, and he felt bruised all over. He was dressed, but his phone had disappeared, and his shoes as well. The room was cold too, with a light, stale breeze blowing. He could smell meat.

            “Lydia, are you here?” He called, as loudly as he dared, and waited for an answer with baited breath. His right ear was throbbing and he felt dizzy.

            No one answered. Slowly, wobbling, Stiles got to all fours and started crawling. More than once he brushed cold things hanging from the ceiling. It made him shiver, and there was a not so small part of him that wanted to just stop where he was and cry his eyes out, go to sleep again and awake in his own bed, but he kept going until he hit his head on a wall. Once there, he leaned on it and started walking the perimeter of the room.

            He called for Lydia numerous times, but only heard something on the third wall. Even so, it was just a grunt.

          “Lydia, is that you?” He said again. The muffled sound was getting closer and more insistent. But it was coming from somewhere fair away from the wall. “Don’t stop talking, okay? I’m coming to you.”

           While Lydia grunted and murmured, Stiles got on all fours again and braved the middle of the room. He knew when he found Lydia immediately for her warmth alone. They were the only living people there.

            “Hey, hey.” Stiles sobbed in relief when he touched Lydia’s hand. “Try to stay calm. I’m going to touch your face, okay?”

            He didn’t wait for an answer, but started following her arm until finding her head. Her cheeks were wet, and unlike him she was bonded and gagged, but freeing her was surprisingly easy.

            When her hands were free, she immediately started pulling at the knot on the back of her head while Stiles went for her ankles with as little groping as possible. When he wanted her, he’d never imagined their first time fumbling in the dark would go like this.

            In the end, it was Stiles who undid her gag too, and Lydia immediately drew a shuddering breath and hugged him. He hugged back, tight as he could, and let a few tears fall on her shoulder.

         "I’m so sorry.” Stiles whispered. This room demanded silence, much like the part of the preserve they’d been taken from had done, except more. The very air felt oppressive. “I never wanted to drag you into this.”

            “Shush.” Lydia answered, voice horse. Her throat must have been feeling as parched as sandpaper. “Let’s concentrate on getting out of here.”

            Together, they crawled to the wall, got up and started touching around for something. Stiles was honestly hoping for a door, but Lydia found the light switch.

            Stiles wished she hadn’t.

           As soon as she flipped it, the room was inundated by a harsh white light and the butchered corpses Stiles had brushed while he crawled around the room. Stiles turned away from Lydia and threw up until there was nothing more to throw up. Even when he was done his stomach rebelled and tried to keep going. He had to kneel from how hard it was cramping.

          “We’re going to die here.” Lydia said, a note of hysteria in her voice. Stiles saluted her, really. She had lasted much longer than him. “They’ll kill you and hang us on those hooks to eat later.”

          Stiles forced himself to stop staring at his own vomit (and what was even his life that his puke was the more appealing option?) and took a look around. There were about twenty bodies hanging, between adults, teenagers and the odd child. Some hooks had only severed parts on them, though. There were plenty of empty hooks too.

          “Why bring us here, though? Why not kill us in the woods and leave us there, or even eat us there?” Stiles wondered aloud. He looked at Lydia, touched her hand, and she seemed to awake from her haze of terror.

            “You were right.” She said in a whisper, shaking her head. “I can’t believe. They are really trying to frame Derek. Think, Stiles!” She kneeled by his side. “They eat people, but them take some nibbles of some and let them there? And why do that, risk drawing attention to themselves, if they have a full stock right here?”

            “Derek is more of a threat to them than the police.” Stiles concluded. “Maybe all the Hales.” He started laughing, and had to bit his fist to stop when Lydia looked at him questioningly. “You were right, too. The Hales _are_ the mafia. The supernatural mafia, and the Walcotts are a rival gang trying to get rid of them.”       

            “Supernatural.” Lydia sobbed. “The eyes, the teeth… what I heard… It was real. Wasn’t it? It wasn’t a dream.” When Stiles nodded, her face hardened. “How long have you known this?”

            “A while, but it was only conjecture.” He confessed. “Derek only slipped officially last Sunday, but we didn’t have the time to really talk about it.”

            _And now we never will_ , Stiles thought, eyes burning. Thinking about it made his heart ache. He’d never see Derek again, or Dad. He wouldn’t try to patch things up with Scott and Ally, or apologize to Jackson properly. Roscoe would never be driven again.

            They had to get out of here.

          With some difficulty, head still spinning, Stiles got to his feet again, offering Lydia a hand. Looking past the corpses was even harder, but he could see a heavy metal door, now that he was looking for it.

           “Listen, here’s what we can do.” He started, locking eyes with Lydia and making sure to see only her. The least he thought about what else was in this room, the best. “I’m positive if we go through that door, we’ll be in the store’s creepy basement. I think if I concentrate, I can open the door, I did something like it before, but someone will be guarding it. If you scream at them, Lydia, we might be able to escape.”

            “Screaming, really?” Lydia said. “How can screaming help?”

            “It did at the preserve.” He said, and touched her shoulder comfortingly when she looked at his bloodied ear. It was ringing, making him faint still, but she didn’t need to know that right now. “We almost escaped because of you, and if we make it outside, someone might be passing by, we can ask for help. It’s our only chance.”

           Lydia sighed, but nodded her head. They made their way around the room, leaning against the freezing walls, trying to avoid the bodies as best as they could. They made terrible time, but kept from touching anymore dead people, so Stiles considered it a victory.

            Once in front of the door, they could see it didn’t have a lock on the inside. Stiles tried pushing it, but it didn’t move. There was nothing to pull it. Lydia glanced at him, eyes tearing but hopeful, so he smiled back at her and took a few steps back.

            “When it opens, wait for them to be right in front of you before you scream, okay? Don’t waste your breath.” He instructed, trying to sound as confident as he had to feel.

            She kept looking at him, but he looked at the door, frowning, concentrating, trying to will it open. He recalled the despair he had felt when the Walcotts had locked him inside the basement, when he hadn’t even know how much worse it could get. He didn’t let the fear take him, though, no. He focused on the anger he felt then, and the fury he felt now.

            _We won’t die in here_ , he decided. _I refuse!_

The lock clicked softly and the door opened a fraction . Lydia gasped at his side, then rushed to him when he wobbled, legs weak as a new-born colt. His head was pounding, and he could feel the inside of his ear start to bleed again.

          Carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible, they approached the door, Lydia supporting most of Stiles’ weight, a hand around his waist and her whole body under his arm.

           Like he suspected, the door lead to the basement full of empty metal shelves. David Walcott looked up from where he was sitting in the dark at the bottom of the stairs when they pulled it open. The light coming from behind Lydia and Stiles reached him only faintly, but made his silver eyes and sharp crooked teeth, as well as the tear-tracks on his hollowed cheeks, all too evident.

            For a fraction of second, he looked at them utterly shocked. Then he recovered just as Lydia and Stiles passed through the doorway.

            “You bitch!” He screamed. “What did you do to my brother?!”

           He leaped at them, and Lydia let go of Stiles, stepping in front of him as he fell to his knees. This time her scream was weaker than on the preserve, but hit David straight on. In closed quarters, the effect was almost as devastating as it had been at full strength at the preserve.

            David stopped mid-step. He tried to dodge her voice, but Lydia turned with him. When she finally stopped, breathless, touching her neck like her throat was hurting, he had passed out. She fumbled to the floor just as surely as Stiles had, panting.

            “Lydia, quick, help me here.” Stiles said. He crawled to David’s prone body under Lydia’s fearful gaze, and started pulling him towards the metal door. Lydia caught on and together they dragged him to the walk-in freezer, but he was only half-way in when they heard shouting from upstairs.

            What was being said was incomprehensible, but the voices where getting closer. Lydia and Stiles looked at each other and reached the same conclusion at the same time. They kicked David out of the freezer just as someone was shoved downstairs violently, directly onto the floor in front of them.

            “Dad!” Stiles shouted, feeling a mix of relief and terror. His Dad was here, and he would make everything better, a childish part of him whispered. But a larger part was terrified, because he knew he would have to watch his father be killed by the Walcotts, if he didn’t get killed first in front of Dad.

            Dad looked at him from the floor, perplexed, just as Mrs. Walcott made her way downstairs, one step at a time. When she saw David lying on the floor, any appearance of humanity left her features. She ran at them, unbelievably fast, mouth open in a wild snarl that made Stiles heart stutter in fright.

          She got so close that Stiles could smell the rottenness coming from her when the sound of shots broke the suffocating silence in the basement. Dad had fired all his bullets at her and hit dead center. Mrs. Walcott just turned at him, more annoyed than anything, and turned back to them, unfazed.

            Then Lydia screamed for the third time, voice scraping like nails on a blackboard, and Mrs. Walcott was shoved into the opposite wall, near the foot of the stairs. She got to her feet almost immediately, though she did so shakily.

            “Dad, come here!” Stiles yelled. He grabbed Lydia by the hand and pulled her to the freezer. It was a testament to how beaten they were that his middle-aged, fast-food consuming, just-dropped-from-the-top-of-the-stairs Dad reached the door before them and helped to drag them inside. They all leaned on the door, closing it with their combined weight. Stiles prayed, begged anyone who might be listening, and finally willed it locked again. He heard the most welcome click of his life just as someone, probably Mrs. Walcott, threw themselves at the door.

            It held. Stiles breathed a sigh of relief. Then the pounding in his head worsened, just as a fresh wave of dizziness hit. He started crying in earnest. They were back at the same place they started, only worse.

            Lydia started crying too, but she did so without a sound. Her throat was too raw for anything else.

            Dad looked at them at a loss. The side of his face, Stiles noticed through his tears, was already bruising and swelling.

            “Sorry, Dad. Lydia, I’m so sorry.” He sobbed, dropping to the floor and hiding his face on his knees. “This is all my fault.”

          “Stiles, kiddo.” Dad said, rubbing his head softly. He sat in front of Stiles, and Lydia sat by his side “I’m not a hundred percent sure I know what is going on, but I’m certain this is not your fault. Now, you have to pull yourself together and tell me what is happening, because Lydia can’t. She’s literally coughing blood.”

          Stiles stole a glance at her, and she had, in fact, a line of bloody phlegm running from the side of her mouth. Her eyes were swollen too. She tried to give Stiles a reassuring smile, and he felt instantly shamed.

            “Okay, alright.” He started, looking back at Dad. He was fussing with his shoulder speaker, but it had gotten crushed on the fall. If he wasn’t looking for his phone, he probably had left it on the car charging. “The Walcotts are cannibals. They kidnapped me and Lydia from the preserve early this afternoon, I think, and dropped us here. We think they are the ones killing and eating parts of people.”

            The door rattled behind his back again, and all three of them jumped. Dad looked exasperated, a deep line appearing between his eyebrows.

            “Does this look like the time and place to make jokes, Stiles?” He said sternly.

            “I’m not!” Stiles yelled. “Didn’t you see their teeth? Or how that woman took like thirty bullets like it was nothing?”

            Dad looked like he might argue further, but Lydia pocked his shoulders and pointed to the bodies hanging behind them. Any further protest died before passing his lips.

            “Dear Lord.” He whispered, almost reflexively. He got up and took a few steps closer to the nearest corpse, shaking his head in horror. Then he turned back to them and Stiles saw only the Sheriff of Beacon Hills. “The two of you, get away from the door and behind me. Michael Walcott and Sean Walcott are at the hospital right now, so we have to be fast. This door won’t hold forever.” Just as he said it, the door rattled again, and Stiles felt himself wobbling on his feet. Lydia held him and guided him to where Dad was telling them to go. “As soon as they break it, I’ll give them all I have . The two of you run for it and get my car outside. Lydia, you drive. Turn on the lights and the sirens, make as much of a ruckus as you can. Stiles, call help on the radio at once, son.”

            Stiles looked at him, as mute as Lydia, as he got one gun from each ankle, put one on his holster, and gave his keys to Lydia. She accepted them at once, but Stiles felt more reluctant.

            “And what about you? You’ll just stay and be their late afternoon snack while we run?” He asked, knowing the answer and hating it with more strength he even knew he had on him.

            “It’s the middle of the night, son.” He said, getting into shooting position. The door rattled again, nearly unhinging this time. Stiles’ ear started bleeding more profusely.

            “How is that at all relevant?!” Stiles screamed. “I’m not running and leaving you for dead!”

            “You are, Stiles! This is not a bargain. You’ll do as you’re told for once in your life!” Dad shouted back. “It’s my fault we’re in this position, son, not yours. _I_ was the one who didn’t listen to you, _I_ was the one chasing Derek Hale while the fucking Walcotts kidnapped you, so I’ll be the one fixing this. Stiles, I swear,” he said, tearing up too, “I won’t just lay down my life. I promise I’ll do my best to go back to you, okay?”

         Stiles just looked at him, transfixed. He couldn’t tell him he didn’t have the energy to take two steps and hug him, much less to run full tilt upstairs and dodge supernaturally fast creatures coming for his blood.

            _We could at least die together, if you’d let me_ , Stiles thought. But just thinking about it was too painful. Maybe it was for the best, if Dad died in here, fighting, hopeful for his son, and Stiles died in the next room, away from his sight. And then he wouldn’t have to see Dad die too.

            “I’ll go.” He sobbed. Truthfully, if Lydia wasn’t holding most of his weight, he’d be lying on the floor. What was that girl even made of? “I love you. You too, Lydia.” He turned to her, guilty and affection squeezing his heart. “I think you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

            She smiled at him, sad and mourning. He kissed her forehead, and then they waited for the door to give in.

 

 

 

            And give in it did.

            Mrs. Walcott walked inside, David just behind her, both looking furious and _hungry_. When Dad started shooting, she just took it. When he run out of ammo and had to change guns, she was on him in the blink of an eye, throwing him to the floor and holding him there with her weight.

            Lydia and Stiles had barely taken a step before David was on them. He threw Stiles aside like he was made of paper and suspended Lydia by the throat, squeezing her pale neck just to watch her fighting for breath.

            _So I am last_ , Stiles thought as he hit the wall further from them and from the door. He felt strangely resentful, under all his despair.

            “Don’t!” He cried, extending a hopeless hand in their direction. “Don’t hurt them!”

            Mrs. Walcott barely spared him a glance before sinking her teeth into Dad’s shoulder, ripping both cloth and flesh. The sound he let out would haunt Stiles for the rest of his life, but soon it was drowned by a much stronger one. Mrs. Walcott barely had time to turn her head to look before Derek was shoving her off of Dad and throwing her into the concrete wall just behind them.

            That made David drop Lydia like a ragdoll. She hit the floor with a clang just as he jumped on Derek, and they rolled on the floor clawing and biting at each other until Derek got the upper hand and kicked him away. In a heartbeat, Derek had Lydia in one shoulder and Dad on the other. He ran to Stiles’ side and put both of them down gently. Lydia was massaging her neck, but seemed more bruised than anything. Dad was whimpering in pain, much as he tried not to.

           “Put pressure on his wound.” Derek barked. His eyes were shining a pretty blue, but he still looked human. Stiles knew it couldn’t last. Both Walcotts were getting up again behind him, and Stiles knew without having to ask that Derek would give his all to this fight, and if he had to look like some monster to do it, so be it.

            “Don’t even say anything about running for our lives, or I’ll kill you myself.” Stiles said, getting to his knees and trying to adjust Dad’s head on his lap. Lydia was putting pressure on the wound, because not only was she much smarter than Stiles, but she could actually deal with situations involving blood without fainting.

           “None of you could outrun them, and they’re blocking the exit.” Derek pointed out. “Pray that I win.” He smiled at Stiles, tender and soft. The next moment his whole face had changed into something terrifying. His hair and skin grew coarser, and his eyebrows disappeared. And of course, fangs as big as Stiles’ nails.

            He turned to the Walcotts and roared, so loud Stiles felt like the whole building was shaking. But Mrs. Walcott laughed, and David followed her example.

          “The guardian of Beacon Hills in the flesh.” She said. “Fangs and claws out already? I thought you were famous for giving people the chance to back out before laying down the law.”

           “That’s for before you kill in Hale territory.” Derek growled. Stiles couldn’t see his face, but the lisp was clear in each word. So much for being nightmare fuel. “Now it’s just the execution.”

            Derek was the first to move that time and the Walcotts met him half-way, navigating the corpses hanging around the room. Derek was obviously skilled and strong, and as dangerous as the Walcotts. He kicked a body into Mrs. Walcott trajectory and swung his fists, fingers extended, directly into David’s eyes. While he tried to get away, Derek grabbed him by the hair and hit his head on the concrete floor until his nose broke. Mrs. Walcott tried to jump on his back, but he dodged in time, ducking out of the way and using the walls to get impulse for a somersault to get behind her after she followed.

            He was back at David in an instant, maybe hoping to get who he considered the weaker opponent first, but David was prepared for him this time. When Derek swung his fist, David grabbed him by the wrist and twisted it. Derek started to go with the motion to kneel, but then he saw Mrs. Walcott coming from the other side, teeth bared, aiming for his throat, and changed his mind. Stiles could hear as his wrist broke all the way across the room, but Derek didn’t slow down at all. Rather, he used Mrs. Walcott speed to trip her and slash a deep gash under her arm.

            With her arm dangling from a scrap of skin, Mrs. Walcott tried to back out, but Derek turned to David, kicking him until he had to let go of Derek’s arm and then he was on her again. It was like he didn’t even feel his broken bones. She swung at him, one, two, three times, and he dodged every time, advancing on her steadily. She hit the wall, making dust fly everywhere, and he took the opportunity to slash under her other arm. She fell down with a cry in a splatter of blood, but before she hit the floor, he had slashed her throat open. Mrs. Walcott was choking on it as he turned around to her son.

            Derek walked to him adjusting the bones poking from his broken wrist until they cracked again, and they healed just like that. Whatever they might be, the Walcotts didn’t seem to have the advantage of superior healing, because David was slower than his mother from all the abuse he had suffered before, and Derek was at full speed. They both jumped at each other, but Derek had the upper hand soon enough. He dislocated David’s arm, ducked down, and then came back with his mouth red. David didn’t move again at all.

            When Derek turned to them, both Walcotts dead behind him, Lydia ducked behind Stiles, and he could feel Dad tensing and trying to reach for his gun. Stiles stopped him, though, by taking his hand on his own.

            Maybe he was just a bad person, in the end, but though he felt nauseous just existing near the scene before him, with all the blood and gore and death, he felt more grateful and protected with Derek’s monstrous shadow looming over him, almost completely covered in red.

            “Thank you.” Stiles said, meaning it. He wanted to cry again, but he didn’t even have the energy for that much.

           “You’re welcome.” Derek answered, spiting blood from his mouth and cleaning his hands on his jeans. He got his phone and called 911, then sat there to wait with them. Slowly, his face returned to normal, or what Stiles saw as normal. He’d have to ask him later.

 

 

 

            The rest of the night was a blur for Stiles. Derek called more people, and then the paramedics got in and ushered them all into an ambulance. They saw Derek’s mouth covered in blood and the bite on the Sheriff’s shoulder, but Dad waved them off. In the end it didn’t even matter, because when they got in the hospital, it was to be greeted by what seemed like every single officer in Beacon Hills, with the news that Michael and Sean Walcott had tried to eat some nurses and Laura Hale and her supposedly catatonic uncle had thrown them off  the seventh floor.

            When things calmed down, and Stiles and Lydia were properly disinfected and bandaged, Derek came into the room Stiles was sharing with Dad. He looked sheepish, but maybe that was just the recent shower and shave.

            “I’ve never seen you without at least some stubble.” Stiles whispered. It felt great to whisper just because he wanted to let his father rest, instead of because of some oppressive energy emanating from the neighborhood cannibals.

            “It’s not my natural state, no.” Derek said. He looked at his feet, hands on his pockets. “Can I get closer?”

            “Of course.” Stiles smiled. When Derek was near, he took his hand, just because it felt nice to.

            “So… about what you saw…” He started, hesitantly. He squeezed Stiles’ hand back. “Do you have any questions?”

            Stiles tilted his head. He was on some painkillers, and his brain didn’t work in a common way normally, but he could swear Derek sounded scared.

            “A lot, yeah. I’d like some time to make a list, so I don’t forget anything. But I just have one for now.” He waited until Derek was looking at him to go on. “Are you trying to break up with me again?”

            Derek snorted, then stopped abruptly when Dad snored on the bed on the other side of the room.

            “I thought maybe you were going to dump me, to be honest.” He confessed. When Stiles rolled his eyes, he continued. “Don’t be like that. After what you saw today, I’d understand.”

           “What do you think I saw today, exactly?” Stiles asked, growing annoyed. “I was about to be eaten, Derek. Worse, I was going to be eaten last, so I could watch my Dad and my best friend die in front of me and maximize the agony. You saved my life. Why am I supposed to not love you?”

            “Love, eh?” Derek tried to tease, but his smile was too soft to really hit the mark. “Are we there already?”

            “I am.” Stiles said, voice stead. He _refused_ to be embarrassed about this. “I know it’s only been a month, and that we still have a ton of things to say to each other, but I feel like we can skip a few steps after today. If you’re not there, you can pretend I’m too high to know what I’m talking about and forget about it.”

            “No, I am.” Derek said. There were a few tears in his eyes, the sap. He smiled softly at Stiles. “I love you. When I got there and you were lying down, hurting, I felt like the world was crumbling under my feet.”

            Derek leaned over and kissed Stiles very softly. He lingered, nuzzling at his temple, and when he got up again he seemed more relaxed.

            “Please, never do that again. My heart can’t take it.” Derek said.

            “I can’t promise anything. Apparently this town is a freak show.” He yawned. His eyes were dropping even as he fought to keep them open. “But I have some good news at least: we don’t have to date in secret anymore.”

            “Really? You had time to talk to your father?” Derek asked, curious. He caressed Stiles hand softly, helping to lull him into sleep.

           “Not really, but I bet he’ll change his mind now that he knows you’re the supernatural police instead of the supernatural mafia.” Stiles smirked. “Guardian of Beacon Hills.”

           Derek blushed. Stiles looked at him intently, trying to commit it to memory. As the official blusher in this relationship, he had to cherish the few occasions when the tables turned.

            “About that,” He said, scratching the bridge of his nose. “Laura wants to talk to you, your Dad and Lydia. Now that you know about things. She will explain everything. And my uncle too. He really wants to meet you.”

            “Sure.” Stiles agreed easily. “Let’s make it a party. The more the merrier and all that.”

            “You’ll regret those words.” Derek said. His voice sounded distant, though, like he was somewhere else.

            “Never.” Stiles replied, closing his eyes. He felt a last gentle touch on his lips, and then sleep took him.


End file.
